


Incorrigibility

by Cheirons_Thyme



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao, Mozart! - Levay/Kunze
Genre: 18th Century, A lot of more interesting I mean, Alternative Universe-Assassin's Creed, Bleeding Effect, Eagle Vision Issues, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mozart is Not an Assassin, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Templar!Colloredo, Templar!Salieri, Underage Sex, but it will be more interesting if you do, you actually do not have to know too much about Assassin's Creed to enjoy this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-27 14:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12082527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheirons_Thyme/pseuds/Cheirons_Thyme
Summary: Assassin’s Creed AU. Colloredo never thought about recruiting Mozart as a Templar no matter how special he was. But he should have known that if he simply let this childish musician loiter in Wien, it would not take those Assassin bastards too long to approach him. “But what in bloody hell do they want?” Wolfgang Mozart was special, but by no means was he a recruitable person for physical fight or intellectual strategies.Or, let’s say it’s a (sad) story of the (sadder) last days of Wien and Salzburg Templar Order, unfolded more from the perspective of the love story between Colloredo and Mozart, and the life story of Colloredo. May the Father of Understanding guide us.======Aug 12, 2018 note:UPDATE IS DONE! But please read the long note at the beginning of chapter four before starting the story, thank you!





	1. Warum kannst du mich nicht lieben, meine skandalöser Liebhaber?

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Not my characters, not my universe, just enjoy. You know, Wolfgang Mozart, Lorenzo Da Ponte and Emmanuel Schikaneder, even Leopold Mozart upon his last visit to Vienna, all joined Freemason community who allied with Assassins according to AC III. It will be quite a waste not writing something about it. Also, I have borrowed the character Antonio Salieri from Mozart L’opera Rock, and implanted quite a lot contemporary historical figures, events and even ideas of their times. So I think the story goes more like a general Mozart-Universe derived from the inspiration of both—though mainly Mozart!-das Musical—Mozart musicals.  
> And, yeah, I am with Templars. :_) I really think Ubisoft should take the Templar line more seriously, not just dig the Wikipedia to find “good guys” and “bad guys”. And I do believe they need do a late 18th century German story line, whether late Baroque period or Romanticism era will be OK. But…well, I know they won’t.  
> Special thanks and love dedicate to dear Assassin lady Itsuka. It is, I know, not a high end piece of perfection, but anyway…shut up and feel my telepath kisses (MUA!) Thanks for your reading suggestions on Elias and every lovely talk we have, you are an awesome adorable walking wisdom!  
> Guys, check Norbert Elias’ works and aesthetic theories of Immanuel Kant! They explain a lot about how Mozart as both a genius and a human being works and what he and his works, in some degree, means to the history of art and even humanity.  
> Anyway, enjoy!  
> *see notes at the end.  
> Lines in Italic means thoughts.

 

**Chapter 1  Warum kannst du mich nicht lieben, meine skandalöser Liebhaber?**

 

The curtain had half dropped. Wiednertheater chanted Mozart’s name like an enchanted thunder storming and raging. Soon would the curtain call be presented but the whistle and applause had already gone insane, like the fermenting passion in the shadow of humanity, the joy and ecstasy, the irascibility and maliciousness, all being emancipated and fused, crawled out of skin just by the tease of the sequence of notes, dem zauber der Musik.

_Huh, does it has to be end up like this, meine skandalöser Liebhaber?_

Colloredo bit down the soft inner skin of his lower lips, he must be deaf not noticing the detailed information hidden in Wolfgang Mozart’s new singspiel _Die Zauberflöte_. Huh, someone was dealing quite well with the Assassins, especially the low and amateur order of them, the Masons. If he was just a Prince-Archbishop from Salzburg, he would not be bothered so much that his ex-court-musician now being indecently consented with the admiration from the massive populace—anyway how could the populace possibly know anything about admiration? Their attendance to theater played nothing more than a trivia role of kitsch middle-class life, the bottom floor from the perspective of his box balcony produced nothing better than coarse language of praises hardly freed of terms of excreta, whistling like animals keening for breeding, shouting with their mouth fully open like they were about to swallow each other. It was a totally different world for him, a world of lower-class life without the refined mask of etiquette of effort to simulate themselves as higher strata vis-à-vis. The uncivilized primitive passion and impulsion flooded free through their vulgarity and devoured sense and reason, or perhaps senses and reasons did not present themselves at this situation at all—people were just responsive to every given stimulus with no contemplation, for which neither the property nor the consequence of it would be plausible. Years of life as a Templar master and prince-archbishop, he observe people too well but never had the even faintest idea crossed his mind to appreciate them, it was nothing inscrutable—the nobles were mostly court animals with cultivated behavior and depraved morality, they hold powers but seldom with any acute judgement and decent empathy to meet their strata expectation yet still hold the majority of social resources by their blue blood, which mainly invoked the resentment from the second even the third class; these populace of second class were not peasants but they did not differ too much, for both of who bow to whoever with whatever power instinctively but with grinding teeth, and in the end refusing any depth of understanding because projecting their own inner evil drive and impart prejudice onto the image of ones did not belong to their kind, easily initiated some clear hate and covered jealousy that freed themselves from the sense of guilty and inferiority was simply a way too comfortable gratification to let go—it was, anyway, a world of breathing specimens of preliminary humanity sins, and it was how the dysfunctional world functioning.

Most of the time he would be amused by such thought, but today was totally different. Rotating the ring with exquisite blazon on index finger with a rather impatient temper, however, Colloredo could not help but feel a sense of indignation raging in his mind. The biting on the lip altered to teeth, he started to wonder if this was another mockery from God or whatever deities of whatever pre-historical civilization. He had never thought about recruiting Wolfgang Mozart as a Templar. Indeed, he had larger worries to concern but a musician like him deserves protection and safety, especially it was the year of 1791, the world around them was not the same as the first day they separated their way ten years ago, it now had itself sank into another circulation of chaos just like another plague. Revolution followed repression, reform came after restoration. Something was trying to crawl out of the skin of their world, and the latter then swallowed it down until the next time it tore open its flesh with bigger wound again, und der Teufelskreis wird enger. The Republic of Liège was built less than two years ago but fell in January as the prince-archbishopric Liège restored; the French nobilities and national guards found themselves in chaos of concealed daggers and panic of insecurity the next month; in June, the angry rebels captured the Bourbon king and queen in Varennes; Then the Champ de Mars event was the last straw for the French people’s predilection for young rising star Lafayette; France was now a mess of perdition, and Austria and Prussia tightened its grab of power. Late in the August, Ottoman and the Habsburg ended war; earlier this month, Joseph’s brother, Leopold II’s coronation was hold in Prague accompanied with the premiere of _La clemenza di Tito_ of Mozart at Estates Theatre. Then here was he, at the second floor balcony of Wiednertheater, witnessed _Die Zauberflote_ , no less seditious than _Le nozze di Figaro_ if anyone determined to dig, being a huge success with a frequency of performance repetition of every other day in Vienna.

Huh, someone totally had little idea of how the world was going on and learned no lesson at all. Colloredo looked back to the stage again. The perspective from his box reached as far as some depth of a narrow glimpse of backstage from side door—the tempo of performance still got every personnel and performer on their toes as the curtain call must be as perfect as the play. But where was Mozart? He browsed the narrow glimpse again without the other man’s trace, for one moment of hesitation, Colloredo took a breath, then forced his mind into a resemblance to serenity, shut himself from the undulation of disturbance within this building of over-lively noises. The next moment, world in his eyes started fade its colors and sound softened into humming drone.

 

Eagle vision came to him since he was a child but he could not remember the exact time. He was never his father‘s favorite son even old Colloredo, after their last family stay in Opočno Castle, found he was the only male offspring being passed on with this gift. He was born in Vienna and seldom brought back to their family castle in Bohemian region, but he still remembered, upon the limited visits during his early childhood, the brick-orange tint palace roofs of Opočno Castle, its warm and delicate style of Renaissance fashion, and the rose aroma in the garden sweetened the songs of larks. Colloredo sometimes wondered what his life would have become if he just gave another answer when asked how he knew his eldest brother was walking towards the library chamber on the third floor when he standing on the courtyard, holding the dainty decorated corner of his father’s chancellor apparel.

“I see him, papa! There! Franz standing against the hall wall! You are leaving again papa! Even Franz is not happy!”

That was the middle of May, the summer was as young as the little Hieronymus Colloredo. Rudolph Joseph Colloredo was still on the prime of his career, the rigorous vice chancellor was setting off to Vienna just two weeks before his little boy’s anticipating birthday due to an urgent summon from Empress Maria Theresa. The father was clearly shocked. For one second or two, young Hieronymus thought he did something gravely wrong. Yet soon to his relief, the countenance of the middle-aged man softened, altogether grew even more complicated as well—if not being both proud and disappointed-from a little boy’s eyes. Summer was still young as him, mingling the smell of fresh frolic and flowers and lovely nap under the sun. Then young Hieronymus sensed a tinge of longing drifting across the summer air of Opočno Castle, a wisp of passionate tenderness hanging over the sweet scent of roses. Someone was playing violin, maybe was his sister or other visiting young friends. Hieronymus Colloredo would never know what his life might have become if he did not rushed to the courtyard and pleading his father not leave so quickly in that very afternoon and he did not want to know either—if there was a moment life chose its own path, that was it.

“Papa? Can I get a violin like Maria Isabella?”

He remembered the old Colloredo did not answer him but started to order the servants to pack for his little boy as quickly as possible, then lifted him up and put him into his luxury carriage, then turned his face to another young man. “Tell Marie I’m bringing Hieronymus with me to Wien. I will explain to her when she joins me there next month.”

 

That was the last time he had ever been in Opočno Castle, he never come back henceforth. Old Colloredo told him that his visionary ability was inherited (but Franz—according to his father—did not have it, which made the little boy felt himself special for some days). He was never his father’s favorite son and never would be, but he learned fast, entered the court life earlier than most of his siblings. At the age of twelve, he had already known a lot about the Templar Order and where he deemed to belong as his father.

“Enemies glow red inside, friends blue, then why do others look like…fading?”

“Because they are meaningless.” His father told him with a plain voice, did not even lift up his head from compiling documents.

At first he did not bother it at all. However, as his age grew, Colloredo found it was a gift of cruelty. Somber hue in eagle vision means no meaning. If you turned your special vision on randomly, all you could see was a lively world of faded meaninglessness, chaotic and indifference of mass billowing forces of life in which one sank and walked through every day but had nothing to do with initially. It was a world of life, a life being tossed into a status of solitude and isolation by nature with a façade of bustling warmth of vitality. It was scary.

 

“So, eventually I am going to kill the golden ones, right? I hope the Kauntiz have nothing to do with it. I’ve never seen a piece of Eden.”

“Do not encounter the family of Kauntiz, they are not your worries. Am I understood?” Old Colloredo paused, then looked back to his seventeen-year-old son who was going to set out for the first mission. “And golden ones are to kill, or to protect, Hieronymus, even negotiation and other action might also be counted as possible depending on how you and your mission intertwining each other’s paths at prospect. Be more cautious about what your vision tells, it is ancient as those relics, but you are not old enough, and you never will be.”

For one second or some more, he had been thinking hard about his father’s words--but he could not remember what exactly was running through his own mind at that moment later in his life—then took a deep breath, tightened his lips and nodded. He remembered, much to his surprise, the old Colloredo smiled, reached out and adjusted his over coat then his scabbard and pistol. “Remember, meine Junge, der einfach Weg ist immer verkehrt.”

The young man sensed a tinge of—if not lost--uneasiness flashed across his mind. The old Grand Master simply grabbed his shoulder by both hands with a determined force then quickly let go.

“Jetzt geh.”*

 

Old Rudolf von Colloredo passed away three years ago followed by a decent funeral, did not live a little longer to see his insisting-but-rejected policy regarding France as an antagonistic figure for the recklessness of House of Bourbon syncing with the undulating unsteadiness of France social structure could only disseminate suffering and calamity of war and chaos, which, three decades ago, finally made him lost to his rivalry Wenzel Anton von Kauntiz and ripped him off the favor and trust of Empress Maria Theresa, now in one way or another started making sense. Hieronymus and his other three brothers and three sisters all presented at the funeral, some of whom he had neither written nor spoken to for years. The prince-archbishop of Salzburg sometimes wondered if his other siblings ever cared about each other—he certainly did not. He probably preferred the bells of Stephandom and the sorrow gaze of saint sculpts on pulpit which he could spend a day to observe and appraisal. Franz eyed over him with a meaningful gaze as if the eldest and most intelligent Colloredo son had detected his petty younger brother being absentminded. Hieronymus, in return, bowed slightly as a gesture to show his respect and recognition to his eldest brother, now the new patriarch of the House of Colloredo, the founder of the Colloredo-Mansfeld princely line, the husband of Princess Maria Isabella von Fondi, the first rank inheritor of the whole Colloredo secular resources in both Bohemia and Austria, the legitimate successor to vice chancellor of Holy Roman Empire, new Grand Master of Vienna Templar Rite, the eldest and favorite son of his father—suddenly, he wanted to laugh. Yet every thought soon dimmed into a distant vague in senses when the friars closed the coffin cover. Hieronymus Colloredo all at once made a decision which he knew he would regret later—he initiated his vision. The world faded its color but the shape of his father within the coffin glowed no more just like his siblings standing beside him, the tune of organ lost its aching grief, voice of mourning and words of pray hushed into soft hum. The sense of arbitrary relevance veiled the world as a representation of enchanted dependency and tender, the truth of the disenchantment is cruel, the world is a cruel bastard of nonchalance.

He kissed his hand on the cross ring but honestly, he wanted to laugh.

 

That was why Wolfgang Mozart was special. He never like the doleful hue of meaningless without having any targeted person in sight even he was approaching his fifties**—he just got used to it. The Wiednertheater could be just another lively place of vivacious meaningless if he could not find that certain piece of soul glowing golden in the depressed hue of numb.

The shape of Mozart was sorted out easily, his glowing was clear but quite fainted. Colloredo frowned. The composer slouched in front of a piano at the corner of the backstage, a position between resting his elbow above keens and hugging himself on stomach, not quite active like he was…ill and in pain? Before Colloredo could get more assumption on Mozart’s health issue, something else lurking at the edge of his sight caught him. The incisive alternation of focus of mind almost stung, the vivid scarlet glowing made an incursion sharp and resolute.

…Assassins?

 Of cause he was not surprised. There was little doubt that those Assassins retards had certainly crossed the line. He swore he must slice several Assassin throats open with his trophy hidden blade to mitigate the anger burning in his chest. So which would be worse? He knew how this would end perfectly well, to accept the Mozart family into his court was the worst irredeemable mistake he had ever made in his life and now this, the whimsical and mulish Wolfgang good-for-nothing Mozart had certainly took his own choice of siding, which was siding anyone except him. Colloredo tightened his fist and let out a low sigh of bitter annoyance.

“Your Highness?”

“Those ineptitude hypocrite diehard of rabbles.” The public theatre in Vienna was filled with raspy laughter of laxatives and vulgar speeches, he could not tell if it was the massive loud vulgar noises or the Assassins that made him frown hard. “Assassins. Three maybe four on the bottom floor, not alert.”

“Then I presume they are not of high ranks, novices or perhaps mercenary at most, I thought we despise prudence enough today.” Count Arco darted his eyesight to the lower floor but did not linger too long.

“I don’t care about who they send to monitor him or what occupation they hold in their cult. I want them perish.” A steady sentence with violence in plain sight implied brutality and dominance, but always being an indication of rage matching behind it. Fingers tapping on the wooden armrest with grace and patience for a moment, Colloredo then waved his hand vaguely like he just realized his own injudicious words that let emotion overcome his reason. “No, just… don’t do anything. We are not here for a blood bath.”

“Whatever you say, Exzellenz. But clearly they are using him.” Count Arco commented calmly. “It’s his luck that Her Highness Empress Maria Theresa did not live to know it. A musician for imperial court is neither better than a canary nor worse than a pig. I doubt if the new Emperor will be easy on him, according to my humblest speculation, the nobilities in Wien who Assassins side are mostly undependable if situation turns…volatile.”

“They don’t side high society, or as it happens they don’t side any society, that’s not how they work.” The Salzburg prince waved his hands dismissively. “They made politicians and celebrities side them, plague them with their ideology or simply trick them onto their way to hell, use their influence and charm, then kick them off like worn toys when they resorting to their assistance, and accuse them of their own weakness and depravity of incapacity to fulfil their purposeful greatness. But if taken deliberation, you will see it’s always about threating to shake their inquisitive hands off Eden relics. What a freewill of independence, Count Arco.”

The old chamberlain remained silence as the other Templar master retreated his leaning body against the balcony balustrade back to a more shadowy position. The box seats provided nothing near comfortable, the velvet-ish curtain on the side of box was blue but dyed rather uneven or perhaps just because they are too old and dilapidated. Even being on the second floor, the ventilation went worse than unbearable. He never knew the early autumn in Vienna could smell abominable as hell when given a chance. Clearly Wiednertheater was stuck in a hard time, they need recognition from both high society and public, they need investment, the Schikaneder were certainly desperate and they bet everything on Wolfgang Mozart who was the nicest wager they would ever have.

“Is Puchberg still his financial patronage?” Colloredo suddenly asked.

“Michael Von Puchberg, absolutely yes. He still lend his hand to Mozart, but much less than the amount being asked.”

“Then I assume Karl Alois keeps his promises?”

“You mean Prince Lichnowsky? I’m afraid yes, Exzellenz.”

“That’s what I fear.” He did not expected his voice came out like an animal growl, a sound between low snarl and hiss. “The House of Lichnowsky upraises with a tradition treading cautiousness and equanimity into dust, mark my word, Arco, they will do irremediable damage on whoever they working for or with eventually.” Colloredo casted his eyes to the temporary empty foreground of stage, the over distressed wooden floor rendered only harsh evidences of a hard time of theater running too obvious to ignore. “That Alois bastard is a monkey haggling over every ounce. The Order do not evade them for no reason.”

“The son of the Mozarts has a terrible taste on befriending. That’s neither new nor unheard of, Exzellenz.” Unpleasant as he was, the chamberlain lifted his tone a bit but not too much surprise penetrating through. “As far as I know, Prince Lichnowsky was a Mason as well.”

Colloredo turned around with an intense amusement and vigilance in his eyes, then he averted his gaze on Arco to somewhere distant, chuckled. “I hope it’s not a slander, Arco. You made me want to help a Lichnowsky already. Imagine, isn’t it fascinating to ensure such a person to be officially accepted by the Creed?”

“Indeed. If…”

The conversation thwarted by a wave of overwhelming cheer and acclaim, both of them looked back to the stage as the curtain drew once again. With the top lights on, the performers came out, standing together, the antagonists and protagonists bowed with enthusiast courtesy, the audiences cheered and applauded, hooraying every time when each performer rendered his or her own thanks gesture, then, out came Mozart.

Colloredo frowned.

The audience went insane again as the young conductor walked out from the side door, one hand waved to the people who chanted his name like he was a true royal, the other hand covered his own stomach tightly. When he finally made his way to the center front of the stage between Emmanuel Schikaneder and Josepha Hofer, he looked like he could not even stand straight and had to slightly lean to the Night Queen for support. Colloredo frowned hard at what he saw. Mozart’s health was gravely damaged, the younger man looked paler and thinner than he ever remembered. His blonde hair lost shine, he was ill and his movements suggested his body was losing its vitality. The more he waved and bowed, the more craze hyped in the applause and acclaims.

The more he was dying.

Colloredo stood up almost furiously, walked pass Count Arco and stormed to the stair way. The old chamberlain followed up reluctantly.

“May I ask where we are heading?”

“Backstage, that petty fool won’t escape from me this time!” Colloredo huffed with a bitter self-mockery and did not even slow his pace. “Leopold II has already rejected him, any admission officially to his court is impossible now but it could be worse. Now the Assassins are using him to taunting their enemies and hide behind his music like cowards! How can I not see this! They are trying to foment the lower order with his music, nurturing their revolting ideas and make them more pliable to action of agitation! How expedient!”

“That is unwise to work for Assassins even just to make a living.”

“Make a living? No, he makes his choice and he never choose it right! Can’t you see he is in insolvency? They don’t even pay him fairly or probably they don’t pay him at all. His notes were much more simplified to entertaining those untrained peasant ears but the whole piece of thing hard to understand in depth like he doesn’t care about pleasing anyone anymore despite of those blunt seditious messages of that Assassin cult requires, which says it all. By God, no, Arco, they are not using him, they are KILLIING him.”

The teeming bottom floor did not feel less congested than it looked, but it distracted him from his flaming anger. It took them some minutes to reach the backstage entrance with a “CREW ONLY” notice board and of course, smoothly paid their way through. The backstage was filled with vigorous delight of continuous success of the performance and the profits it would bring at the prospect. The first person recognized him was Emmanuel Schikaneder, who still wearing his verdure costume and actually was talking to the other dark-haired man in casual clothes possibly being Lorenzo Da Ponte. The baritone was clearly shocked with his eyes wide open when he passed by, then slightly elbowed the other man. The Italian poet, after realizing the intruder, soon became no less irritated than surprised, was about to rush his way towards him to give an eloquent speech to make them leave, but was stopped by another woman in costume, possibly a soprano or dancer. People were whispering.

_It is going to be a scandal._

 

Did people ever stop whispering? People never did and never will.

People were whispering just like now fifteen years ago when the Mozart family returned to Salzburg from Milan, ending their last prodigy tour with no fortune and fruit but exhaustion. That was the year of 1773, the second year after he won the prince-archbishop election on the 13th ballot and came to take vacancy with heated controversies. The early spring eased the snowy days not too long ago, sunlight still felt cold and smelt so too. Leaves hadn’t drifted out of the sleep in the circle of life, but robins were the early birds of the year, who thinned quite a lot after going through a barren winter of deficit of food and enjoy, and stretched their wings even when the black boughs still shrouded with snow and dazzling with ice. Salzburg still ran itself in debt and everything ran short. The early spring granted no guarantee on prosperity of the coming year and Colloredo had worked for several months trying to reduce the rotten slack left by his dead predecessor. People still fuddled at daytime, which violated his ban on daytime inebriation. He wondered why Bavaria and Austria tried that hard to win such a shithole to their side just because it was a sensitive area defined by dilemma created by themselves—he wondered why he himself used to be part of the errand, surely it was because he, in fact, did not have any choices. He was not the popular choice, he could not win the election without the help from the Order in Rome, and drove his opponent to another region in Bavaria. However, thriving in dark forecasted only unpredictable future, seeds born dystrophy now force to sprout, to germinate, to bourgeon. It was going to be arduous.

The early spring unfolded a bleak fate of hardship rather than a picturesque prospect of prosperity. Colloredo’s mind was a little pre-occupied when his old friend from the family of Waldburg-Zeil, now the prince-archbishop of Chiemsee, said something about…musician?

“Excuse me?”

“Musicians.”

“Ferdinand, you are confusing me.” Colloredo slowed down his pace and eventually stopped, standing in the open esplanade in front of the princely resident, looked back to Ferdinand Christoph von Waldburg-Zeil curiously. The carriage was still waiting.

“Uh,” The other prince-archbishop let out a soft sound between laughter and sigh. “After all those disputes we’ve been through, this is what I do hope you take as personal, mon amie.”

“Que suggérez-vous?” Colloredo arched his eyebrow a little, indeed, their friendship had ruined more than half of it after the election. Ferdinand and he had known each other for years, they shared a good relationship before being dragged into the power struggle. The kingdom of Bavaria favored a Waldburg-Zeil and the Habsburg favored him, the candidate from the House of Colloredo, to the vacancy of the prince-archbishop of Salzburg. Clearly the lopsided victory had already claimed a heavy price on them interpersonally. The effort that both of them had tried hard not to take the last two years of power struggle personally did not end well—although they did not turned into foes for now, they were not and not going to be friends any more even if they still address each other as so. Now such efforts had become pretentious, the weakness of unwilling to face the truth that when forcing into a larger picture, the individual endeavor to keep themselves from abuse and alienation mattered pathetically little. Colloredo know it too well, it was not his victory but the Habsburg’s, Ferdinand and he were nothing better than their sword and blade, merely an expendable implements. No matter whichever side the goddess of victory sent her kisses, the implements ended perfectly and exactly the same. He’d never like the Habsburg nor the central court. He chose to do it because he had larger concern, and as long as he had concerns, he had no choice. The Templar Order within the continent need allies, no matter those allies being aware of or not. Besides, thanks to Empress Maria Theresa, the core figures of imperial court had rely their support less and less on the House of Colloredo as the latter gradually gained themselves crucial power. He indeed had more than larger concerns.

“J'ai des gens à recommander.” There was a sense of aloofness in Ferdinand’s words as him postured a refined smile on his face.

“Vous souhaitez recommander des musiciens.” Colloredo commented frankly, but hardly could he cover the surging disbelief. “Pourquoi?”

“Vous en aurez besoin, mon amie. Et vous aurez besoin ... lui.”

His old friend had a much sweeter tongue than him, and the election went relentless still got both of them. Colloredo narrowed his eyes. “Je ne comprends pas.”***

The Waldburg-Zeil nobility did not return his gaze but walked pass him towards his carriage, stopped in front of it with one foot stepped on the cab stair. His movements were swift and modified as their friendship ruined by politics and profits, estranged they became. Servants bowed automatically. If now they spat, it was more about ego.

“Hieronymus, if I must remind you. I’ve been the dean of Salzburg diocese for years, I know Salzburg more than you do.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I win the election, Ferdinand, you are not in the place to give a lesson if I must remind you as well.”

“I am perfectly well aware of my defeat, mon amie.” The prince-archbishop of Chiemsee held his head high, but the fist grabbed the cab door frame clearly tightened. “I only hope you could consider my advice this time for the sake of our…friendship.”

Colloredo remained silence, but Ferdinand did not wait for his response.

“The deputy of Kapellmeister of your predecessor, Leopold Mozart, I think you might considering to hire him as yours. Salzburg is not a large region, Hieronymus, but you need, anyway, to make your court more…” He turned his body and gaze slight around with one hand half in the air, the fountain stood in the center of the plaza was drained, a somber gray and yellow color tined the sculpture in the middle, the early spring of Salzburg still tasted as winter. He lengthened his pause as if seeking a proper diction, then looked back to the new Salzburg master. “Court.”

“You are educating me, Ferdinand.”

“Take it whatever you like, mon amie. I have more emotional connection to this place than you could understand, it would not be my wish to see you fail it.”

_Huh._

“Music is a powerful resource to your reign, I don’t think a clever man like you need my reminding. Whatever ambition you held I sincerely do not judge, but you need to make everything back to work, to function—then start with your court and its normal routines—music initiates a lot of aspects, as I know you are not a person for poetry.”

“I will consider your recommendation if the Mozart man could at least present himself in Salzburg. If I’m not wrong, he and his family have been on a tour in Italy since last year, way before my arrival. At least that’s what the one of servants’ supervisor tells me.”

“Grant him a chance, Hieronymus, he will be back soon as I heard. After all, nitpicking as you, I know you don’t have any qualified candidates at hand.”

Colloredo chuckled but did not reply.

“Leopold has son, Wolfgang Mozart, that boy is a music prodigy.”

_Prodigy?_

He frowned instinctively. “I don’t hire ** _circus_** and …”

“He should be eighteen or seventeen by now, you will thank me later.” The Prince-archbishop of Chiemsee did not wait him finishing his sentence and stepped onto the carriage without hesitation.

“Seriously, Hieronymus, you will thank me later.”

 

Ferdinand was correct, he always had reliable information. The second day he started hearing people whispering about the coming back of the Mozart father and son. He remembered Arco was not happy about what he knew at all. The old chamberlain almost spent the entire afternoon persuading him that he should not consider to waste his tight budget on musicians who had not shown their faces no mention it was a recommendation from a person he just defeated. He had to stop his reading with some degree of annoyance. Arco was an obedient and dutiful steward, it was rare to see him acted in such persistence of disagreement.

“Relax, Arco, I know Ferdinand. He might hate me now, but he is not person into espionage or vengeance. Besides, I haven’t decided yet.”

“But you are considering it.” Count Arco uttered grumpily. “I’ve heard rumors that the young Mozart boy was a rogue and imp, spoiled by his fame and gift. They will not be qualified to your…”

“Sounds interesting.” He put down his book, rubbed one side of his temple with two fingers. “Tell me more. What do you know about this…imp?”

Arco almost rolled his eyes.

“As a matter of fact, my knowledge on the Mozarts is limited, your Highness. Poorly educated the boy is as far as I know, his father took him and his sister on tour to perform in different high courts since he was four or six, I doubt whether decent people like the Pope or other dukes or duchesses, see them any different than freak shows.”

“They don’t indeed.” Colloredo tapped the wooden desk unconsciously, the early spring of Salzburg smelt still like winter. Suddenly, there was a stir on the window, he chased the tiny movement at the corner of his eyesight and a nightingale came into his sight. The little bird beat its wings then combing its bright feathers happily. Gentle lines of hill in distance hazed in grey mist of early spring, he heard blurred voices of small talks as the sun had already sunk below the ground. The dying white sunlight turned the moisture sky purple, then the little nightingale flew and dissolved into it happily as it chirped. There was a fainted smell of early spring in the nightingale’s fainted song. He could see the cathedral even some distant farmhouse from his window, which stood still in the shade of dusk. The evening breeze touched the dry and naked trees with tender and patience as if the glade had a steady breath.

Arco was still speaking but he suddenly lost interest. He had made up his mind but somewhere back in his consciousness he knew something in the end would not work.

“You may leave now, Arco. Summon the Mozarts to me when they are ready.”

 

People were whispering when he decided to accept the Mozarts to work in his court. At first, Leopold Mozart did not present his son with him due to the boy’s health issue—as he explained with some uneasy stammers in speech. The old Mozart was a devoted and humble man, obedient and even tactful. He brought some pieces of compositions of his son with him, specified his need—or, in his words, “for the tight sustenance of a humble family”—to find a position for his son, Wolfgang Mozart, in the orchestra of Salzburg prince-archbishopric court. Leopold Mozart looked nervous with his hands tightly locked in front of his body, clearly had prepared himself for a bargain for expediency on refusal. But Colloredo granted it—clearly shocked the frank Salzburger whose body language revealed intensity and confusion loud and clear—then returned to his business, anyway a decided commission which purported to be simple should not costed too much of his attention as he had more arrangements at hand ahead of the remaining day.

 

The first time he saw Wolfgang Mozart, he did not know how to do with this boy. April of Salzburg had a charm, its attractiveness was a striking strengthen of vitality as the hazel slope returned to verdant and mellow chartreuse. April was the third month since he had begun to regulate the council and brief conferences with his statesmen and diplomats, whom he now found out holding the tradition from his predecessor and having no idea about being effective. In what time did they think they live in? Sixteenth century? Colloredo, when walked out of the Carabinieri Hall finally, could felt his patience was dying from exhaustion. Commander Lutzow would report to him before dinner, he simply hope the husband of his niece had some good news on the fortress renovation. He could not help but wonder how in hell such a place could survive that long without stumbling into idleness and insolvency—it was not like he did not prepare himself enough for the coming toughness of exercising the actual statesmanship while holding office in Gurk, nor did he underestimated how deep the historical malaise of religion and politics clawed its mark on human minds. Salzburg, anyway, was going to be a Templar stronghold, things would change. He would bring the beacon of reason and order to this unfortunate land of chaos and benightedness.

Walked along the east hallway, the sunshine casted its golden warmth through windows, soothing the nerve aching from the unsettled disputes and outline of budgets in his head still bouncing hard in his senses. He thought about going back to his study chamber to deal with some letters from Vienna but suddenly, he heard music. Colloredo stopped. It was fainted but clear, not a formal play but more like a practice with improvised errs. They were not loud, carefully controlled their volume, mainly several violins and a solo piano, stumbling on the notes here and there, obviously new to the score but not totally unpleasant. The master of Salzburg stopped, listening.

_D major, a serenade._

“Quite difficult.” Colloredo murmuring to himself did not realizing he was actually enjoying the faltering practice by putting the notes he heard together in mind. “But beautiful.” He remembered early in the morning Count Arco passed a request from the court orchestra asking if they could use the Knight Hall for practice as the original orchestra house would not be available for days. The chamberlain complained about the orchestra servants being such a persistence of disturbance. But He granted it, saying as long as they would not disturb other general affair operation in the Princely Residenz, it would be delightful to hear some music in his palace. He even joked who could be such a musician with a spirit of stubborn.

Colloredo thought for a short time, realizing he would have an entire evening probably the whole long night from dusk till dawn to deal with his official papers, budget journals, and piles of letters and missives—anyway, those worst and mean letters from Vienna had already got his temper. He stood in the corridor for a moment, then walked towards the Knight Hall.

The musicians stood up and bowed immediately when seeing the prince-archbishop walked into the house of pure white. There were just four or five of them, all strings without trumpets, reluctant and uneasy with their instruments still in hand.

“Our sincere apology, your Highness, if we just distu…”

“Ah-uh, look who is coming.” A female voice came to his ear behind the piano, the woman got up lissomly--he did not see her at first—the ribbon on her hair dropped on her shoulder, vaguely touched the jewelries around her neck where a wisp of hair fell and curled beside. “Someone is not so busy at exercising his heroism on saving Salzburg.”

_That’s…amusing._

“Madam Lodron, I didn’t know you are here.”

“Quel dommage, Hieronymus, you are making me nervous, please still call me Maria Antonia as a symbol of our friendship still stands as the old days.”

“Comme vous le souhaitez, Maria Antonia.”

Maria Antonia von Arco**** smiled and hold out her hand elegantly as Colloredo printed a shallow kiss with decency.

“Where is Ernst?” He asked, stepped a little back and picked up the score sheet from the wooden stand.

“You know him, Hieronymus, Lodron boys.” The noble woman from the Arco family picked up her ivory fan on the piano, enjoying herself in a delightful banter. “Can’t wait to bury himself in libraries and hunting field like the Firmians.”

He chuckled and eyed to the sheet on his hand. “I hear your practice, it’s quite a difficult one.”

“Oh, this! Difficult indeed. The notes are too lively. But you know the young boy, always ready to be a lovely show-off.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s from your new musician, Wolfgang Mozart. He hasn’t shown himself yet, as I am quite curious about his new work so I come to see it myself.”

Colloredo hummed with interest, rifled and scanned the sheets for some seconds. He did not get it wrong, it was difficult but beautiful, very beautiful.

“I want to try it.” He drew some pieces out from the thin collection and beckoned the nearest violinist. The latter handed his instruments to him immediately.

It was one of the movements of violin solo, rich and colorful with the hymn raise and fell, the complexity was not a show-off, no, but an attentive nursing of heartily longing and craving. It felt right. Colloredo controlled his wrist and fingers carefully with the tender he almost thought he had long forgotten. The pulchritude of score guiding the strings to unveil a world of aesthetic perfection of harmonious warmth, the evening when lovers sending kisses and roses, the songs of nightingales, the gentle shower of golden meteors across the long night, like there was a magic guiding the expressive density of notes and the skill of the performer to interlacing their fingers for a clear yearn of caress and love. It was a flirtation, the trill went through passionate tempt to tender ease, tempo chased the invisible little bird, accent and sostenuto, glissando and tremolo, the breeze of summer night, the full blossom of fleur-de-lis, then finally, cadence.

Colloredo let out a slow breath and put down the violin. It was beautiful and real—too real.

“…Bravo.”

A voice came from behind, so small almost sounded like a murmur but clear enough with emotional astonishment to draw him back to from the Elysium of music. Colloredo followed the voice, and saw a young man standing at the doorway of the Knight Hall with a pile of scores holding in his hand. He must not be elder than seventeen, the frame of a slim body still lingered between the shape of boyhood and a real man. He was thin, too thin but full of life, luster of blonde hair looked envious with his pale skin, the bright blue eyes shines effervescently like morning star of a vitality rarely seen. He did not bow, did not falter, not even tip his head. He was not an ethereal beauty, but there was something ethereal about him, something…

Colloredo narrowed his eyes, the curiosity overshadowed the annoyance for his youthful impertinence. He should ask who this boy was but in fact he already knew the answer. Colloredo narrowed his eyes, he knew he would never like the despondent tincture generally ranged in the world through his special vision. But this time he felt an uncanny boldness or perhaps a sound courage within the urge to see the boy in a differed mean. He narrowed his eyes and easily concentrated his mind, then called out his visionary ability. He did not know if he was expecting anything or not, but then, the prince-archbishop was shocked.

He…glowed?

The Templar master blinked. Golden, it was the color, clear and bright among the faded hue around him. Colloredo remained speechless for a short time, confusion or maybe even consternation caught him totally off-guarded. He could not remember the last time he had ever been in such a vulnerable situation, he simply stood there, staring at the soft humming golden glow protruded its prominent existence from the plain somber world of veneer, did not know what to do when the boy walked over, stepped into his personal space, seeing the astonishment on that pretty face in front of him turning into a wide grin then a heartily exhilaration out of rapture. “That, is what I am talking about. You understand it, you flirt with your strings, God, I…”

He suddenly stepped even much closer, tilting the blonde head, and pressed his lips on him.

_…wow._

Colloredo did not have too many moments in life to have a feeling being shoved into the way of fate or maybe the fate shoved itself onto him somehow, but certainly at that moment he had been knocked out of his vision. The boy was kissing him, arms circled around his neck for support for he was not yet of same height as the elder one with score sheets still holding in hand, letting the corners of papers tickling the back of his head. Those lips felt soft for a kiss rather reluctant, inviting and sweet. Therefore, even with the bow and violin still occupying his holding, Colloredo found it would be a shame not put at least one of his hand on that leaning waist. However, Colloredo in fact did not know how should he respond or whether should he respond at all as he was all the time fully aware of this incident was on display in front of every person, noble or low born, in the house.

_It’s probably going to be a scandal._

He did not return the kiss but did not push the boy away immediately either. He should be irritated, furious, offended, but he did not feel any of it. Colloredo let the younger one lingered his passion for a while, then gently eased the boy off his hold. He stared into the blue eyes for a second as if there was something enticing his attention then stepped out of the reach of the youth.

Everyone was shocked. Maria Antonia hided her expression behind the unfolded fan, the musicians and other servants in the Knight Hall were jaw-dropped. There was a deadly silence, the white sunlight of April looked even paler when Colloredo turned around, glancing at everyone in icily cold who just accidently witnessed the scandalous incident.

“No one utters a word about it. And you too, Lady _**Master**_ Arco.”

Maria Antonia paused a little, clearly stunned by the implicit tile she being referred. She put down her ivory fan emotionlessly, then bowed without a word.

_It is going to be a scandal._

“Your Highness?”

Silence was still dense when Karl Joseph Arco walked into the Knight Hall in a rather quick pace, seemed totally unaware of the tension within the house. He saw Maria Antonia and tipped his head slightly, then walked over towards Colloredo, handed him a small envelope.

“It’s for you, Exzellenz, ” He lowered his voice, spoke and glanced over to Maria Antonia who had already walked closer, then back to the Salzburg Prince-Archbishop. "...from Inner Sanctum."

The lady tensed at what she heard. Colloredo arched his eyebrow then took the letter, walked out the Knight Hall before took a glance at Wolfgang Mozart, who stood beside the piano, eyes fixed intensely on him.

That was the year of 1773, the world had not been tore apart, but people were whispering.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In fact, the Colloredo as nobles of 18th century, would be more likely to speak French to each other.  
> **Historically, by the year of 1791, Colloredo was reaching his sixties, so historically he should be much older than here in this story.  
> ***Yep, French.  
> ****Maria Antonia von Arco was a leading noble woman in Salzburg, she had strong political influence at court and was also a good keyboard player who shared her passion of music with Colloredo. Historically, Arco family knew Colloredo before he came to the power in Salzburg, Maria Antonia and her husband, Ernst Maria Joseph Nepomuk von Lodron, possibly even had been friends with Hieronymus Colloredo for quite a long time. She was one of the strongest protector of Wolfgang Mozart during his time in Salzburg. She was, here, also a Templar Master.
> 
> ============  
> It's quite a long chapter. Hope you just enjoyed it.  
> Talk to me and tell me how you think, ladies! Many thanks!


	2. Der einfache Weg ist...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's an E rate now, after finishing that sex part I realize.  
> Enjoy and tell me how you think, many thanks!
> 
> *see notes at the end  
> Lines in italic mean thoughts.

So how is 1791?

Things one was not expecting to be settled in 1773 should not be expected in 1791. People were still hard to deal with, but this time, they did not just whisper, they bit. The mellow autumn breathing no fresh air in the uncapacious backstage delineated the people’s haphazard vagary in a manner of weird unanimousness. Colloredo walked through the crowd with no expression, feeling equal to that in a stream flowing pure maliciousness. He simply wondered those who in second class now so in love with the French admiration ever spoke French at all. He brushed the thoughts and annoyance quickly and walked towards the further shady corner.

“May I ask your highness, Prince-archbishop of Salzburg, what brings your most gracious presence to our humble inner backstage?” A woman’s voice came to him from behind, a lifting tone by nature, steady and calm by character. “May I presume you just get lost? It will be my honor to show you the way… ** _out_**.”

Colloredo turned around, saw an actress in stage costume, head holding high with appropriate pride and politeness, clearly with abundant experiences dealing with people from high society, probably her admirers. The woman walked over, with a little currying steps, and circled from his side with swift grace to the front of him and blocked his way of advancing.

_Uh, a social climber with courage._

“How dare…”

Count Arco was sure about to scold but the Prince-Archbishop stopped him and smiled, stepped forward and kissed her hand as an ordinary routine of etiquette.

“Forgive our brazen eagerness, Madam, and please do not blame the young lad who let us in, he is a nice kid, comprehensive and smart. I am here for the conductor, Wolfgang Mozart. And you are…?”

“Anna Schikaneder, at your service. My husband Emmanuel and I,” She lingered her gaze briefly to the Papageno with a sweet smile, then back to Colloredo. “run this theater together.”

“Then it will not be fair without a foreseeable achievement rewarding your shrewd diligence and devotion, Frau Schikaneder. Your performances are incredible. If it will be convenient I am more than eager to contribute an appreciable donation to your talent and assiduity on your artist career.”

Anna chuckled.

“Then how much are your Highness talking about?”

_Nice skill of bargain, indeed a climber._

“About a new theater?”

Anna’s soft laughter was like a refined tinkle but in a tired way, obviously not buying his words therefore dropped the dialogue direction completely.

“Make it simple, your Highness, what do you want from Wolfgang?”

_…And very pushing._

“Nothing in fact. I just want to see him with sincerity. .”

“Sincerity? Like what?” Anna arched an eyebrow but her tone lowed. “Mockery or abuse? Or taking advantage?”

The flank audacity of Anna went beyond Colloredo’s expectation. And for the first time in the whole eighteen years with Mozart casting a shadow in his life, he now vividly realized how actually this scandal was viewed and talked by the people. The thought embittered his mind but Colloredo, on the contrary, lifted the corner of his lips by a delicate angle, continued the conversation with no emotion presented in his voice. “In fact, my determination to see him is solemnly sincere enough, Frau Schikaneder.”

“I see no sincerity in such motivation, Your Highness.”

Arco grudged but did not carry out his usual role to interpose a conversation in stalemate as being told. Colloredo stepped a little closer to the singer with a charming but cold grin still hanging on his lips. “I don’t always talk to ** _people_** like this, if this is the sincerity to that you refer, I engage in our little talk only due to my respect to Wolfgang Mozart with whom **_you_** befriended—or possibly the terms like milking or deceiving, if not of more aggressively illegal wickedness and dishonesty, should be more appropriate. Think about it, lady. I know where he is, even if any of you do not allow me to see him still I will walk in there to seek him out because, as a matter of fact I hope you understand, you do not have the right to stop me even if you try as that will only end up to a dead-end of you and your husband and colleagues being in jail and the rest of life ruined or at least damaged or crippled, literally. But now I am offering you a choice of lovely alternation.” He gestured around. “Look at your theater. I have to admit, personally, I have no interest to put any investment here, but I know people who does and I know people who will. I am doing it for him. It is not a bargain, lady, it’s reason.”

Anna stared back with defiance, however, fear had revealed its flash trace deep in her eyes. Every word stabbed like a dagger to remind her of knowing her place, her lips trembled with resentment.

“You are threating us.” The woman hissed like an animal being wounded, but indeed, he wounded her pride and persistence on equality, propelled her awareness of her years of effort to integrate herself into the class of upper society being in vain and even of a bit of an ideal joke.

Colloredo for one brief moment, felt horrible about himself for that how well he knew the prerogative contemptuous attitude would always work in such situation facing such people of second class preoccupied with such certain motivation of social climbing, but his countenance remained untouched, pushed a little forward more. “No, I’m sorry I cause such an unfortunate misunderstanding. No, Frau Schikaneder. I’m not threating, I’m **_warning_**.”

There was a whispering turbulence in the crowd. Emmanuel stepped a little forward towards the circle. “That’s enough! You should lea…”

“No, Emmanuel. His Highness is right.” The wife did not wait her husband finishing his sentence. “But there is one thing. We who among the humble occupations do not worth your **_reason_** to remind us of our petty predicament, anyway, who knows, it’s 1791. Tongues,” Anna did not shy away her gaze. “…are sharper than blade.”

“That depends. Tongues have ** _blood_**.”

“Then they are not invincible.”

_Huh, Assassins people educate the lower massive quite well into their way of thinking._

Colloredo slightly narrowed his eyes but remained silence since he could not think of any words other than mockery. Anna filled the silent gap quickly as if she had realized the direction might lead nowhere.

“If I may suggest, your highness, your… ** _sincerity_** , is a hard step.”

“If it’s an easy way, I will not choose it, Madam. Der einfach Weg ist immer verkehrt.”

“Then I assume I could not stop you, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

The last a few exchanges were swift and peaceful. The lady co-owner kept silence for a brief moment then let out a soft sigh. “He is in the private chamber for conductor, over there. Remember what you have promised, your Highness. It’s 1791.”

“Then a proper discussion on your theater renovation or replacement could be managed later, Lady.” Colloredo smiled. “It’s 1791.”*

Anna walked pass him without a look, head still held high—yet probably a little too high this time—then made a waving gesture to the crowd. “Everyone, back to your business. Call the lads to clear the stage and seats and boxes, take care of your costumes later, leave the backstage for some time.”

 

The private chamber was in fact not an isolated chamber but a temporal secluded space for conductor at the furthest corner of the backstage, relatively quiet but not with a slightest mean of  accommodating, with running crew carrying stuffs now and then. Colloredo walked past the door, saw Wolfgang Mozart who was chatting with a gofer with his back facing him, half-leaned against the piano to support his standing, listening to the other man’s complain about theater drudgery and their plea of salary raising.

A sense of indignation flamed in his mind, Colloredo thought about greeting him with a tender manner, but stead he still raised his hand and applauded in a cold way, the rhyme went slow and demanding, with a shadowy pressure looming within. The musician froze yet turned around immediately.

“What a success you have, Wolfgang, among the lower order.”

Wolfgang Mozart startled for a moment, disbelief written in his eyes, mouth half open as if his could not find his words when he saw the older man walked into the small room. He instinctively leaned a little forward as if his feet might carry him over to Colloredo, but the hand grabbing tight on the edge of piano prevented him from doing so. The silence was disturbed by a shuffling stir as a young lad sidled from behind quickly walked towards the gofers who still minding their own business in the chamber. He whispered something and quickly led to the latter retreat themselves from the small place after gesturing a bow to Colloredo and Arco hastily. The small place went completely quiet.

“Hie…Colloredo?”

When the conductor finally found his words, the Templar master frowned both at his re-choose of words on addressing him, and how the younger man appeared in front of him. He still wore modish taste things, white mostly, but now all those cheap or sumptuous addition on clothing were just a placebo and distraction for his own awareness rapidly deceasing health. His eyes were bright as the last time he had looked into, still with an illumination of prominent vividness like stars, but now addled with clear twinge of solitude of depression and sense of defeated casting a vast context at background. He certainly had learned a lot of things for surviving, he tried to act insouciantly on how the favor of high society ostracizing him, but the failed strength and effort unable to hide the sloven underneath whose life bleared by the grueling hardship of the madcap of freedom he seek, and how his talent had become a force of self-destruction, enfeebling his health and vitality and his passion. Colloredo frowned hard. The world had never changed, it was simply that the world started to get him when his luck which he took for guaranteed ran out. The first day he had chosen to face the mundane maliciousness with bare flesh, he never prepared himself to face his failure. He knew this day would come, since the first night the senseless young fool took his inordinate flight.

He needed protection.

“Will you not bow before the Prince?” Arco was still not happy with the musician’s behaviors, everything just as it was ten years ago, but the musician’s reaction differed.

“Wolfgang Mozart bows to no one, what do you want, Prince Colloredo?” He fired his words back still, not a spontaneously response from a lively being, but because such words actually hurt.

The prince-archbishop sighed. In fact, he truly did not have the mood for another tiff.

“Arco, leave us alone.”

 

Things never worked—never had and never would, the way they destined to end up in a certain finish of rupture. It turned out to be a rather heated argument when the young man sliding away from his reach. Colloredo was not of a choleric personality, years of life engaging in politics had taught him to remain calm, controlled and collected. He was a pure blood court breed, he knew what mask he chose to wear and where he belonged, even the worst slanderous remarks could not touch his poker face or affect his polished demeanour by the slightest mean, until the day he met the son of Leopold Mozart, the little blonde bastard with every inexpedient behavior he had ever known, who was deemed to ruin his life the first moment he indulged him a kiss. In the end Colloredo had already abandoned any hope without inciting a scandal for wagging tongues, he carried out everything within the reach of his brain: his father, his music, the unvalueness of popular acceptance, a place to belong. Never ever had the worst diplomatic negotiation or disputable crisis got him in such a way of exhaustion and desperate, nor the most touchy commission from Templar Order had such a power on him.

“The answer is still no, your Highness.” Wolfgang Mozart turned his head slightly as to avoid his gaze but determination had revealed its tone with bare teeth. “I don’t need your favor, I’m my own man and I always will be. No.”

“If so then see it through, Mozart! Don’t be a fool! If you believe God gifts you your talent for—whatever huge term you want to use—all human being, then at least learn to burden it!”

“How?” the younger man retaliated with grinding teeth. “What do you know about burden? What do you know about wearing a mask? About being different? About being worthy or worthless? About being a stranger in the world? About being consumed and drained by what makes you proud? Tell me, Colloredo! What do you know about any of them?”

He saw tears flashing in those big blue eyes but refusing to fall due to his strange pride. The memories of early life of spending nights in awaken and awareness of troublesome and dismay due to seeing his siblings and people he loved in a hue of somber, depleting passion into lethargy, leaving a youth with a fatigued soul, all of sudden flashed through his mind. He now realized he could never win this argument, he could not make him to leave with him—he wouldn’t have failed to do so, he was just simply never able to succeed. Colloredo closed his eyes. The anger and resentment sizzling in his heart was too complicated, he could not point out the exact emotion to blame, he was angry for sure, but he even did not know at whom he was actually angry, or to what point he tried to argue with. The Father of Understanding had forsaken him again.

“Everything.”

When he finally uttered his response out, he felt himself like a weak and devastated old man. The musician was leaning against the piano, let out an almost silent laughter then titled his head up.

“I believe you.”

“A price is always exacted for what fate bestows.”**

“I agree.”

“Then at least listen to me! It’s never easy, but you have to choose at least where to belong for your own sake, or the burden will be your death!”

There was a moment Colloredo felt terrified. The more he realized he was losing this argument, the more he felt the urge to initiate his vision to ensure if this younger man still glow or not, but he knew he did not have the courage to face the possible result he might saw. He was not ready and never would be. He felt exhausted.

“Der einfach Weg ist immer verkehrt, this is your own word. I don’t belong to you, if this is what you truly mean.” Wolfgang Mozart leaned his body to the piano, like he had used up his strength. “if it is my fate, it has already taken too much…I’m sorry, Hieronymus.” The sick conductor hesitated for a moment then reached out his hand, resting on his cheek. Mozart definitely wanted to kiss him with those trembling lips, but his gesture looked hesitated, cold and reluctant, resembling nothing Colloredo ever remembered. He saw a wrecked creature in front of him, as well as another wrecked creature reflecting in those beautiful blue eyes. Colloredo had prepared himself for the worst dolorous belaboring but no, he would never want such a kiss because they don’t deserve to end up like this. It hurt.

Colloredo backed off, shot him a glare before stormed out of the room.

_No, not this._

 

When God granted you a gift, he would show his mercy and generosity by never exacting a price—he just simply left your life go dysfunctional by it. Colloredo never knew he could be this desperate and lost control. It could not be worse.

 

 

Perhaps?

Perhaps he looked worse eighteen years ago. Or perhaps he was simply a worse person.

The spring of Salzburg at that time had a magic with a persistence eulogizing the untrammeled vital force that granted the little feathering fledglings enough courage to take their first flight, the way the smallest sprout broke out the parched ground. Though he was not sure if such magic persisted its existence through the long following time since the year 1773 eased itself into the burial of memories.

Salzburg stumbled itself through an ostensible coziness of spring, Colloredo remembered those months to be one of the busiest time in his whole life. Never did he have such an April and early May with little capacity to spare even a leisure afternoon for a horse ride, and he had to turn down several invitations from Vienna for dinners and parties with his old acquaintances there, some of which were scheduled months before. Salzburg office was consuming his private life, he wrote to Ferdinand occasionally, inquiring some of the domestic routines and certain public attitude. The prince-archbishop of Chiemsee wrote back quickly, but mostly expressing harsh and personal reviews, addressing him to be too “arrogant”, “aggressive” and “impatient”, which in fact did little help and eventually eliminated his interest on any possible way of friendship restoration. The financial documents in his hand recorded the past years of Salzburg abysmal. Countless malfeasances could be deducted simply by browsing the record papers. Eclecticism was effective under certain condition that irremediable political and cultural malady rooting deeply in tradition when in order to get everyone to work together and sometimes he had to depend on it in which, though, he did not believe.

Being a noble needed to act like one, dutiful and disciplined, if one was to seek reputation and ambition in his court; therefore, those delinquent and bromide ones, as he spoke during one of the scheduled conferences with leading Salzburg noble figures presenting themselves days before, only abased their glory from their own linage. He released his first budget plan including favoring Salzburg University by granting state financial support and an attempt loosening the state grip on the general market, together with a testing suggest that to cut the numbers of excessive state servants from both high and low born in order to decrease the burden of state expense. Czernins, mostly, were not enthusiasts on his reforms for now, but the Lodron family showed a lot of support, together with the Arcos, and even some of the Firmians.

Salzburg was troubled by its stratified society, the suborn stratification revealed itself by morbid symptoms that people from high to low were deadened by the illusion of taking everything for granted, ennui and numbness were easily identifiable here but residents still identified themselves as diligent ones out of the fear of taboo which had lost its origin in the mist of long history, and pretended themselves still sharing every great fortune of world whether because it was how they being told or out of some pure fear to face a cruel and tedious life of barren truth. It was a stable society, an ideal stable one if saying. When no one was troubled by misdeeds that disgraced his social position and profits, which neither could respectable sublimation glorify, was determined by unquestionable premises such as blood and birth or solid sudden wealth rather than capacities or hardwork. Then virtue was corrupted and deteriorated, became a mere decoration while the evil lost its certain function on evaluating the individual soul and freewill in society. It could be portrayed as a place with no evil at all, the way beauty lost its striking vitality to guide souls to sublimation, because sublimation worked less effective than propaganda. It was stable place indeed, just in fact that the stabilization and granted dreams led to nowhere but morality degradation and cultural vulgarity. This was the Salzburg when handed to his reign.

Colloredo of course was highly aware of how his reform would tickle the nerve of the indigenous nobles, but as long as he got the leading ones on his side by compromising interests and power balancing, those of lesser blue blood of larger number could not get into his way. Speaking of leading figures, he receive a letter form Karl Joseph von Firmian couple of days before, the king-ish Governor-General of Lombardy showed interests on his recent policies***, but did not directly address what he truly wanted, which was quite curious circumstance for such a military man with a renowned reputation of candor. Perhaps he would talk more if he gave him some details on the Salzburg fortress renovation? Or maybe talking about art? Paintings? It always worked for Firmians anyway.

Colloredo put down the document column and rubbed his eyes as they felt too tired to continue. It had already pasted mid-night, he stood up and walked towards the open window through which the early May breezed cool air. Sentries patrolled in the garden, their footsteps were accompanied sometimes by owl songs that much like a strange dirge with no sorrow, fresh grass remained reticent without the disturbance from the summer little bugs, the supple boughs now started growing young thorns in the taciturn night to anticipate those coming redolent buds. Night wind swayed pass the willow woods, touching those withies covered by fluffy green new leaves, which was barely visible with the waning light of human activities but audible like the nature was talking to herself. He would have two long ceremonies to attend tomorrow, one long Mass in St. Peter’s cathedral in the morning, the other in University in the afternoon. To shorten or reduce certain public rituals would soon be on his list of reform. The way to participate public ritual was somewhat resembled the way how the mentality hold people together in the society. To change the routine and tradition of public ritual was to change people’s mentality on social participation, to force them to reevaluate their relationship with their surroundings and even themselves. Only regimes and shitholes might hold long and grand public events and rituals of solemnity to hold people together because if they don’t remind people of their attachment by strong stimuli, the latter would soon also failed to find any recognition towards the community as a whole with the former as its protector and representative. Besides, people are no better than herd unless you force them to live as a human being.

_Salzburg under my watch won’t be a shithole but a beacon of Europe._

Colloredo let out a sigh, walked back to his desk, opened the draw and took out a small envelope from a hidden sector. It was written in coded words for the higher-ranked readers within the Order. He was startled at first when unfolding the small parchment in fact because he had never expected to be included in such a circle of readership after his first Order commission and second, he had never expected at all that he would receive direct inquiry from Inner Sanctuary.

He at first thought it was mistakenly sent to him rather than to his eldest brother Franz or possibly his father, but after checking and reading the whole thing for the fifth time, he was convinced by the fact that the letter was not here due to mis-delivery but no less puzzled by their intention.

_They must be in huge trouble and desperation. It’s not an easy time for the Order to sustain anyway. But Eden relics?_

“Huh, **_the Apple._** ” He murmured with a sneer of both sarcasm and doubt.

_Now for what? If only I could persuade them how precarious it could have become. Too precarious to any sacrifice to be of equal worth._

He of course was not a vacillate person but he did not always agree with the Order,especially their strong belief on First Civilization. It was common within Templars maintaining a natural questioning attitude though mostly due to their pride. Colloredo thought about informing his father or perhaps Franz, but somehow felt foolish if doing so. The Order tradition put tasks of Eden relic prior to any operation, therefore those two leading Colloredos possibly had already got more on hand. Besides, he hadn’t reported anything to them for years and they were not asking either. It was never easy to be a Colloredo, much harder a Templar Colloredo even. He frowned and shoved the small letter back to its dark hidden section as some unwanted memories started drifting up in his mind.

Colloredo quickly shook the disturbing memories away, and started to consider about the long Mass tomorrow. Ferdinand did have a taste on musician, his recommendation of the young Mozart turned out to be marvelous, whose scores constructed a rich imagination of religion like a featherly light touch of heaven itself. But still, he must ask his orchestra musician to shorten the length of Mass music, he need it to be simple as possible, beautiful rituals for artist was a way of spiritual sublimation, but for ordinary people only hallucinating novelty. Or possibly the whole phase of art, the whole aspect of “pity and terror”, the “purge of emotion” worked exactly the same. People naturally debased everything, art was a stimuli with price, science a trick and displaying vanity.

_Uh, education, the education budget._

Colloredo frowned at the new problem swaggered into his mind. He reached out the wooden knob to close the window then suddenly heard a sound of rustling. With a flash of transient movement, a white figure rushed out of the bush near the edge of the terrace and threw itself over into his room, landed heavily on the ground and immediately crawled with no grace to the window wall against which pressing his body tightly.

Colloredo was a Templar master anyway, the incident occurred to him first with the impression that he got an Assassin intruder. He did not equip any lethal weapon at such a late night but already identified several hidden locations within his reach containing such as a small dagger or a pistol, even two maybe three routines for dodging for both getting minimal hurt and fastest weapon retrieving if the intruder just leaping towards him with a hidden blade. Moonlight paled the dainty windowsill, the warm wooden scent of perfume seemed chill down to a smell of harsh intensity. He initiated his vision like a last-second pre-battle instinct before engaging into a fight.

Wait.

Wait…gold?

The intruder did not move. He looked a little panic with heaving chest due to shallow breaths but not frightened at all, those eyes were bright and shrewd, blonde hair stick to his forehead by shallow sweat, sitting within the shadowy place, and lifted his finger to a hush gesture. It did not took the Prince-archbishop long to locate the person within his mind chamber of memory

_…Wolfgang Mozart?_

Several guards were patrolling in the garden, they stopped just below the veranda.

“Did you see somethin’ in that bush, on the terrace?”

“Nay, I ain’t seein’ nothing. I’ll crush his head open if I saw an intruder.”

“Ppppf, shut your gabby mouth. It’s probably some cat.”

“Shhhh! Quiet! The Prince-Archbishop won’t be happy to hear your nonsense! Back to your work, to the south corridor! Quick, quick!”

The musician on the ground let out a silent breath of relief, shoulder softened when hearing the footsteps disappeared into distance. A cheeky smile returned to his face when he was about to stand up, immediately being shoved back to the wall with a dagger pressing on the flesh where his neck met the torso.

“You’d better give me one good reason not to thrust it into your throat or slice it open, boy.” The Salzburg Prince-Archbishop asked with a thick low voice, dangerously cold. He had decided first of everything all, he was going to throw some palace guards to poor house tomorrow.

Mozart caught his breath, clearly the feel of pressure from a sharp blade meant no joke or any less serious. He tried to back away from it but found himself was actually stuck between the wall and a much bigger and stronger body of the Prince-Archbishop, but still, there was no trace of frightening in his eyes even when his life was at stake.

_Brave young thing._

“I come to retrieve my scores in the…uh um…in the…”

“Try again.” Colloredo did not wait the young musician finishing his obvious fresh nonsense, added a little pressure on his wrist as the dagger edge threatened the unbroken skin more. Much to his surprise this time, the young man showed no tautened emotion at all. He let out a sigh of disappointment, adjusted his position carefully as the sharp edge still shallowly sank in his intact skin.

“I come to see you, your Highness.” He answered with a voice calm and mild. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“If I have to remind you, boy” Colloredo remained unaffected and still did not let go of his weapon. “Department of Justice works well I think, I’ve already issued regulations on them, which you should have known as a normal citizen of Salzburg. You could consult or report to them in the daytime if you are in trouble or grievance, not trespassing into the my resident to bother **_me_** at night.”

The young man startled, obviously automatically took his words as suspecting him to be some kind of evildoer, which was actually quite common for his age. It was in fact quite fun to watch. Colloredo could not help but wanting to push him a little more.

“I’M NOT IN TROUBLE!” Wolfgang Mozart retorted immediately, body leaned a little forward instinctively but almost at the same time stopped his whole defiance as the stinging feel of dagger edge on the flesh reminded him of his place.

“So you rush into one?”

The young musician growled but remained still. Colloredo did not put down the blade. Instead, his free hand started to check the young man by every body part which possible for weapon carrying. His breath hitched as Colloredo circled fingers on his wrist.

“Don’t move.” He warned.

The late spring warmed the evening, the musician did not wear too many layers of clothes which made his movements much accessible. His wrist felt thin, both of which did not wear any concealed weapon like hidden blade or modifications of it for poison shot, yet thin as those wrists, he doubt this boy would find a fit one without special craft, which he was sure not attainable in Salzburg; he could not felt any thin lamellar armour or pauldron for stealthy mission as those shoulder blade outlined its own shape clearly from his touch; his ribcage was bare under the common linen shirt, did not have leather belt attached to it for carrying hidden small sword on the back; his waist did not feel like having developed enough muscle for a male adult, hipbones were narrow without any trace of scabbard hanging. The older Templar now had been almost sure that he was neither encountering an Assassin nor a criminal, but he had to be more cautious because the former could be much more into sleigh of deception. Youth as such might turned out to be a weapon, while talent a bait of lure. Colloredo reached to his lower back, searching if there was a dagger hold on the head of his breech, then a suppressed quiet gasp pulled him back from his thoughts.

Colloredo looked up, the younger one in front of his eyes looked…bewildered. He narrowed his eyes, realized those blonde hair being unruly with tiny leaves messed within, some dirt still stained his face and chin which propelled tentatively his urge to wipe it out with his finger. Deep in those eyes revealed a trace of uncertainty, his lips were slightly parted, he looked nervous, like a nymph in the woods turning away from the passion of the God of Sun, but stumbled into his embrace by the moonlight. He was blushing.

Colloredo suddenly realized how suggestive the whole position and procedure was. The boy who with a blade pressed against was almost half lying on the ground with his elbow supporting his upper body. He just touched him, his hand was now resting on that thin lower back, one knee straddling between those parted legs and slightly pressed up to inner thigh. He of cause understood every connotation in the boy’s reaction including that small tent almost too embarrassingly obvious, he hesitated for a moment. It was nothing rational but a pure instinct palpitation, he hesitated for one second maybe two and decided to indulge it, then raised his hand and wiped the tiny trace of dirt with his thumb on the chin of Wolfgang Mozart, just below his lower lip. The skin of such a youth felt addictively smooth and soft.

_No, you fool, that’s enough._

The Prince-Archbishop backed himself a little off, but by the speed of light the young man grabbed his wrist and slowly, sucked his lingering thumb into the those soft lips, lightly biting and licking it by a motion and rhythm of certain implicity. His eyes looked into his, the dark blue of firmament burnt, the stars rained gold.

Colloredo drew his hand back with a gasp and pressed Wolfgang Mozart back onto the floor rather violently, regained his control of the whole situation which in fact he knew he was slowing losing.

“Stop your tricks. What do you want from me?” Colloredo asked, he wanted to question the little demon sent by Satan himself from the shadow of wasteland that no man when in his lucid time would be able to locate, with a stern hold of his own position by his righteous and clear mind of Enlightenment, but his voice sounded not even convincing to himself. It is husky and low, hardly veiling the sensual anxiety and eagerness too clear even for a deaf ear.

The intractable musician lying on the ground quietly laughed. The moonlight spilled into the room from the window, threaded the strong cardinal undertone of the Bohemian rug of, not simply gorgeousness, but pure splendid and flamboyant style, some silver magic within. The magic crawled up and altogether rested its light on those pale skin revealed by a half-opened collar and dissolved in his unruly blonde hair. Aphrodite had casted her strongest spell by the name of Artemis, as in chaste to perverse the wildest call of sensational lure, venery being a hunt.

There was a moment he found his cerebral judgement annihilated, like the aged watchman of morality and self-control somewhere in his mind suddenly hurled his shield down to the ground, blew him a shot of Cupid then altogether threw the bow onto his head, still with the same old tedious face. He must be in some kind of forbidden dream without, strangely, anxiety, unless the familiar world had itself run into pure strangeness. The Father of Understanding had forsaken him.

Hieronymus Colloredo knew he would regret it later for a way much longer time when he picked the little demon of gold up from the floor like he was picking up a lady. When the musician circled his arm around his neck like nothing more natural, Colloredo also realized another fact that either end of the night that might turn out to be, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

Anyway, the night turned out to be like nothing he had ever experienced. Colloredo wondered how such a body of thin and pale figure could be a pure voluptuous incarnation so perfectly igniting every taste of his dark desire only to be found in the furthest corner of dream. The fluid body line of pale tender flesh rendered an explicit attractiveness formed by a result of combination of feminine of indolence, and the developing muscle expecting the coming age of masculine of adult life. The hedonistic passion danced like a minuet on his skin and in his panting and moans. The young man responded every touch and every caress he was given, the mist of lust veiled the shining pellucid intelligence in his eyes which could not even concentrate behind those long flushing eyelashes. The joy of flesh had driven him on the edge, he whined on the plush Orient silk sheet of elegant floral orphery, when Colloredo withdrew his finger for the second time. It was a sight of pure sin in a licentious reverie, a creature on the prime of his vigorous youth lying on his back, legs separated between which the older one straddled in a manner of implicit lavascious invasion, one hand resting on the raised knee, the other sneaked down, circling his finger on the forbidden ring of entrance soaked by excessive amorous lube. The whole body of the young man was covered by marks of kiss and bite, trembling with anticipation, tortured by sweet desire.

Colloredo entered his fingers for the third time, the pant of the young man hitched and quickened more, he licked his lower lip unconsciously, swaying his waist. The Prince-Archbishop didn’t want to hurt him, but it was a gesture teasing his limit, he felt his own cock twitched within the confine of fabric.

“Hold still, boy, and don’t touch yourself.” He warned, kept his tone as plain as possible. “Or I will throw you out naked.” The flesh wall engulfed his finger already became wet and soft, the entrance was loose enough for three fingers but it still would hurt for larger intrusion. The younger one whined at his threat and the inner flesh clenched instinctively, which, in fact made things way much worse for him. Colloredo let out a sigh, then brushed across that already found spot of light in his body with torturous tenderness.

The flowing unsatisfying pleasure was cruel. The young man wriggled on the sheet as his waist was going to melt, hip slowly rocked willingly, panting and tiny moans became sympathetically wet then finally reduced to a shameless whimper, with his head unconsciously tossed side to side on the luxury pillow with feather patterns.

“Please just…please…I can’t…” The broken plead tailed by a trembling gasp nearly cracking into tears, which made Colloredo to be much surer that it was his first actual intercourse with another male. It was not strange, coming from a catholic family and extremely attached to his father who held conviction on God and his doctrines as far as he knew from all kinds of information passing by, Wolfgang Mozart, though obstreperous, would not have too much opportunities to expand his certain audacity in certain aspect.

_So he comes to me? That’s curious._

“You are not ready.” Colloredo calmed his own voice. “I‘m going to enter you, after all.”

Wolfgang Mozart growled in disappointment or perhaps lament, started to realize the elder man was actually playing with him, teasing him on purpose, enjoying his desperate reaction affected by his legerdemain, drew out by his patience, treating him like an instrument with those skilled hands of a violinist with a rather light spirit of, not an artistic delicacy but an instinctive triumph.

“It’s…it’s not fair!” He protested.

Colloredo chuckled. “You come to me first, boy. Then at least play with my rule.”

“Bastard…uhmmm…” Then young musician cursed between his pantings, the look in his eyes was vague and unconcentrated, totally distracted by the finger sinking and moving like a snake in his body, opening him, preparing him, for the man straddling between his separated legs.

“I…I should have known…” The flame of lust spread like a wild fire on his body.

Colloredo smirked, did not stop his hand. “Know what?”

“You are a manipulative basta…hgh...” The words dissolved into a gasp when the slyly finger brushed across his prostate, the tormenting pleasure immediately brought him to tears.

Colloredo hummed with interest. “Go on.”

“The…the way you play the violin! Your flirting is…ughmm…is all about control! You change my pace, prolong…huh…the craving sequence into poisonous sweetness! You enjoy the tormenting yearn by softening your fingers on the strings! Tenderness is just a façade! Tunes, they never lies, no, you are…UGHHH!”

The sudden intrusion of pure animistic brutality cut off the young thing’s critics, like the one who dominated the situation was not quite happy about him being still capable of analyzing and complaining without giving up his lucid mind and succumbing to the revelry being offered, it’s a gesture of punishment. Wolfgang Mozart tightened instinctively around the phallus intrusion. It is large, too real and too demanding. He wanted to breathe but there is no air could pass his windpipe because of vehement explosion from the threshold of senses, pain and strangeness had taken over him, tears were falling, fists grabbed the soft layers of sheet.

Colloredo grinded his teeth at the soft warmth and tightness inside of the youth engulfing his cock, and cursed his own impatience and pride. The Prince-Archbishop stayed still, the one beneath him was full of life even he trembled in pain. Colloredo swiped his tears away with his clean thumb, nipped his earlobe gently until the sensitive skin turned dark pink.

“Shhhhhh…it won’t hurt for too long, I promise.”

The young one whimpered, cursed something too blurry to catch.

“Relax and breathe.” Colloredo sank his teeth into the flesh on the tender skin of the pale neck where had already covered by marks of love of possessiveness, combing kisses with biting like he was tasting a prey at his mercy. When he felt the young man was finally relaxed down enough, he started to move, first shallow and slow, then deeper, with more demanding rhythm. Those lean arms climbed onto the muscular build shoulder, blonde head buried in his neck, gasping.

“Wolfgang Mozart. Look at me.”

The young man did not listen, instead he clenched to him more tightly, shaking his head against his neck. Colloredo gentle ran his fingers through the rich and beautiful hair, ameliorating his tensed anxiety. He knew his tenderness must felt demanding.

“I want you to remember this moment, when I take you, when I fill your vein with fire.”

He stopped his movement and backed a little, eased the boy onto the mattress then saw the boy slowly opened his eyes, the deepened blue with stars and moon rising behind the mist from the distant lonely mountain, a soul lingered there coming from somewhere ethereal and beyond reach.

The brief silence was sweet like eternity.

“…but you are a tyrant.” Wolfgang Mozart uttered with pants, words breathy, enticing and daring, looked into the eyes above him with determination and misty vagueness of lust.

Colloredo did not answer, but started to pound into him, hitting that certain point every time. The young man yelped and cried, the pleasure was obviously too strong for him.

“You…want no..nothing but submission, people or instrument, it doesn’t matter.”

Legs circled onto the strong waist, pulling the older one closer for more.

“You also want power.”

“Incisive…uhmmm…truth and more like…”

“…like making death.”

The younger man’s sentence scattered into incoherence as Colloredo quickened the pace. He chucked as he found the younger one adjusted the angle of his hip to sink the large penis deeper into his narrow passage. Colloredo traced his thumb along the jawline of the shivering musician whose member was hard against his stomach with leaking pre-cum. He knew it won’t take too long for the young one to release.

“But you still come to me, boy.” The Templar Master said, voice low and sultry. “Besides, I prefer making love.”

_The night is long, anyway._

 

 

_The night is long, anyway. Huh._

Colloredo sneered bitterly, the tip of index finger traced along the edge of the silver goblet. Recollections played their taciturn legerdemain all the time, and night was always long. Frowned at the strong taste of the cognac, he realized he hadn’t touched any alcohol since being struck by that grievous illness and wound when he was seventeen which he in fact did not want to have too much memories about. Things never changed even in 1791. The lighting gas casting its waning radiance while his lonely shadow lingering on wall of the opulent texture. He sat idly within the vast lodging room, the whole Palais Colloredo was empty, retreated into silence dense as death. His father died here three years ago, then Franz had moved to the new Palais Colloredo-Mansfeld**** early last spring. The brisk Zedlitzgasse had a much lively life than here in Waaggasse, which was what he being told. He did not want to return his own Vienna resident some blocks away, because that was a place filled with memories of separation and farewell—but wasn’t every grand palace all the same?

There was a tiny stir.

“I thought I’ve said it clear enough, Arco, leave me alone.” The Prince-Archbishop uttered annoyingly when hearing small sound of footsteps from the entrance of lodge room. “Don’t make me…”

“May the Father of Understanding guide us, Master Colloredo.”

Colloredo startled, headed up from his thought, seeing a man with dark hair stood in the door way. He was still in his early forties, wore a leisure suit and night cape of sophisticated materiel from senior supplies, which revealed the fringed ornate vest with dark Florentine lily patterns while a small silver cross pattée stood out as a dainty decoration above the pocket. He did not took off his leather glove, the cane rested in his left hand was obvious his weapon. Colloredo narrowed his eyes, cursed the alcohol still messing and roaring in his system. He could not even draw enough concentration to initiate his vision. This man, by his hair color and countenance, was an Italian born who stayed in Austria for quite a long time as his choice of clothing still revealed that Iberian gallant taste. He knew every Vienna nobles, he probably saw him somewhere, but…no, even with dainty clothes of high qualities, or the faultless training that refining himself with perfect manner and etiquette like a natural gems and jewelries of high society, Colloredo was sure this man belonged to the second class, a state servant, which he knew by the first glance.

“What happens to Arco?” The Salzburg dignitary smirked apathetically, did not put down his goblet.

“Count Arco will wake up some hours later. He is dutiful after all.”

“I think you should know your trouble, mio amico. He is a Templar Master.”

“So am I.”

Colloredo shot him a cold glare of disbelief. The man chuckled like he had expected this very reaction. He took off one of his gloves, revealing the cross ring on his index finger with a confident smile. For one second or two, Colloredo was shocked, speechless.

The man was still smiling, already knew what was running and questioning in the noble’s mind. He did not wait the other one’s response, the corner of his mouth lifted with a refined angle and assured charisma.

“Time is changing, your Grace. Just…next time, if you are really planning to have a fevered dispute at backstage with Wolfgang Mozart, clearly you should be more cautious on rumors and scandals—they have wings and fangs, and most annoyingly they take sides, your Grace. You won’t be always with the luck to show your gratefulness when having an ally to clean up the **_tails._** ” The man paused, then tossed a blood-stained hidden blade device onto the expensive Indian carpet. The device immediately caught the Prince-Archbishop’s eyes. It was a new-design he had never seen.

“You know their ranks by their blade more than I do, I think.”

“I do. It’s…impressive.” Colloredo was struck by astonishment, but also started realized the situation of his affair had touched the most unwanted complication. The Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg put down his drink, stood up and walked towards the Italian. “I will be more grateful if you would apply the basic routine of social etiquette, like a proper self-introduction if you don’t mind.”

“Uh, forgive me, your Grace.” The man bowed lightly with one hand raising to his heart. “I am Antonio Salieri, Templar Master from the Vienna Rite, it’s an honor to meet you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * They replaced the old theater by a new one historically, but Colloredo had nothing to do with it.  
> ** It’s Zweig. No, Colloredo is not quoting, I am. Relax.  
> *** No, actually, this is something never happened. (…uhmmmmm, why am I noting this?) But, the Family of Firmian is renowned for their taste and collection of fine arts and books. Karl Joseph von Firmian is an artist, though not quite professional, himself, and indeed very powerful. The success of the Mozarts during their stay in Milan are benefited from his support.  
> ****No, Palais Colloredo-Mansfeld was not built until 1865 in a Neo-Renaissance style. So actually some Colloredos probably still resided in the old Palais Colloredo in 1791. Anyway, we are in an absolute alternative universe here, so relax.
> 
> ===========  
> Another long chapter! Hope you just enjoy it.  
> Please tell me whatever you think. Thank you again:-)


	3. Wie kann es möglich sein?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks, deliriums and aversions of time set may confuse you. Note the "--" mark helps.  
> \--  
> My updating is slack, I know. Hope you enjoy this long (again) chapter! Feel free to talk to me!  
> \--  
> Lines in italic mean thoughts

_Antonio Salieri? No wonder he looks familiar._

“It’s my honor to meet the most renowned Austrian imperial Kapellmeister as well.”

Salieri bowed deeply to Colloredo’s words of courtesy but without any intention to continue the topic about his profession as his face remained plain.

Colloredo picked up the device on the carpet, the buckle of the pelt was rather new but looked stretched and thick and covered by fresh cut, the bearer of the hidden blade must be a large one, tough and skilled. the blood stain remained fresh and even slightly slippery despite of the coldness and the dry air. There must be a lot of blood smeared onto it. He arched an eyebrow while stole a glance of the Italian who stood straight and elegantly without a vestige expression of unpleasant injury, but the crooked posture on the left side of body still revealed the disturbance of pain, which possibly being a sign of injury on ribcage or perhaps upper thigh.

“How is your left leg and ribcage?”

“It’s not serious, I can handle it.”

“You must have had a tough fight. Remember go to Arco when he wakes up, talk him out of anger and he will take you to my doctor.”

“I will. Thank you for your kindness, your Grace.”

“Considering the situation, in fact, I owe you a proper acknowledgement and apology, Herr Salieri. I saw them there, I should’ve been more cautious but emotion clouds my judgement.” Colloredo walked towards the gas lit and adjusted the dusky light more luminous, then gestured his colleague swiftly. “Please, have a seat, burden your weal no more. Forgive me not preserving any servants in such an abode of unprincely manner to attend you any accommodation. It’s…empty as you see.”

Salieri bowed without a word then settled himself in the crimson guest chair beside the ivory decorated tea table.

“Is the assassin still alive? Do I have to issue a further clearance?”

“No, I took them down, but I leave the bodies on the street as a sign of warning.”

_Tough one._

“Good, it’s always better to be feared than to be revered.” Colloredo hummed impressively and hold the hidden blade up to his eye level, opened the blade with proficiency, traced his thumb along the inner apparatus. “You did well and bring back a valuable item. It appears to me that they are upgrading their garrison, mio amico.”

“How do you know? It’s just one new device.”

“It’s just one new device.” Colloredo repeated his words, fiddled a small component within, and out flew intensely a small arrow which ended up on the wall by a short and fainted whistling sound, spiking a portrait of Colloredo ancestor.

The Italian caught his breath.

“Not even a single time have they failed to stir troublesome deeds when they do changes on their iconic blade, which serves no less a symbol than a weapon. As far I can tell, they are adding strings like a tiny crossbow for modification, and the strings are from materials available in most blacksmith shops in Europe, replaceable and cheap. Yet, see here, the length of the track is a failure, intensity indeed converge but the cost is the whole procedure of arrow shooting could get stuck—I have to say you are lucky. It is not a special craft, but a crude make of experimental model. History repeats itself, if they are doing an upgrade of their weapon, something big must ensue.”

The Italian frowned at his words. “But on the contrary, your Grace, the Assassins in Wien recently are strangely quiet, what you just said disturbs me gravely.”

“Quiet? I thought they’ve made big noises enough, like singing their slogan in an opera.”

“But it’s not new. They’ve targeted Mozart long enough as a matter of fact, if I’m not taking your words wrong.”

“No, you are not. I didn’t know he is messing with Assassins, but what makes no sense is that if they just want to monitor him, then why send killers of high rank? It’s not likely they knew I was going to be there, I’m just a desultory bonus.”

“Wha…?” The Italian widened his eye, stammered at his own words on shock. “Forgive my persistence to resort but I think they were there for you.”

“They were not, mio amico, it looks like that from your perspective but, no, they were not. It doesn’t sound convincing but I saw them from my balcony, my presence did not raise their alert therefore I presumed they were not of high rank – I was wrong, their disregard of me was less due to being perfunctory amateurs than that I was not their target from the first place. I assume the number of your kill today will not be more than four, am I correct?”

Salieri lingered him a gaze of disbelief but did not, thankfully, question anything unnecessary. “Yes, four is the number. Then for what purpose? If they are using him, then there is no need to eliminate him when everything they requires goes perfectly with his music manipulation, he gains his name, they gains what they spread.”

“Unless it’s out of control or too powerful.”

_And threatens their hands to reach the relics._

Colloredo stood beside the fireplace, the light of fire portrayed his countenance by flickering shades and light. The room is vast and quiet.

“I don’t think so. If just for a work of propaganda, they could’ve reach better target of art instead of him. To be honest, Mozart was talented beyond anything I’ve ever known in my life in this career, but what the Assassins want from him always remain opaque to me. There are rumors of all kinds but obviously not convincing enough.”

Instead of answering him, the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg turned to the gradevin, the frame of the wooden cabinet carved into layers of curling vines, an extraneous effigy of Bacchus was attached on one side as a dainty door knob. The craftman who made this pushed his skill to scrupulous extreme, even the dimming despondence of light sacrificed none of its effulgence of art. It used to be a palace of luxury full of life, now the luxury only remained as a commemoration of liveness swayed in the dimming boat of memories. Colloredo did not realize how abandoned this palace had become until he took out one of the bottles and goblet out by himself without a servant even Arco for assistance, he filled the small silver container, then handed over to the Italian. The latter hesitated, or perhaps was surprised at it, and took it.

“Drinking is not a healthy choice considering you still have wound, but it will keep you warmer, Herr Salieri.”

“It’s… very kind of you, your Grace. Thanks.”

Colloredo smiled then walked towards the small table and picked up the hidden blade. The cracking sound of burning wood reverberated in the vast lodge room. He narrowed his eyes.

“Tell me, mio amico, who do you think, will nurturing a more pliable horde for subversive when setting as a model of action? A Don Juan, an aged recondite scholar or a wandering Jew?”

“As one can’t talk about a subversive without talking about sex, then Don Juan is expedient.”

“But his desire is for desire itself. Sensual for sensual itself, it’s somehow artistic purity. ”

“That’s why it can be painted into any picture, rubbed into any shape.”

Colloredo nodded, eyed towards the dancing fire.

“Tell me, Master Salieri. What more do you know about Wolfgang Mozart? Tell me about the rumor you just mentioned. I haven’t seen him for nearly ten years, but how he appears to me stirs me the way premonition looms into my sight.”

Silence suddenly enforced its encroaching standing in the room, not a single word penetrated its dense chrysalis as the cracking sound of fireplace weaved another layer of its solidness. Colloredo all by once realized he had lit up the right dark corner,

“Master Salieri?”

The Italian let out a breath, looked up to the noble man, the shadow on his face blurred his expression, painted that handsome face in eerie shades.

“I can spend a night to talk about his talent and praise him like a son of God to whom I confess I have sinned my lifetime’s jealousy.”

“I am a priest, if …”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Colloredo turned towards him as the younger man stood up from his seat, on the contrary, turned away. “First of all, I ask your Highness to promise me not regarding my word as calumny or a mad talk, placing no judgement on my moral condition.”

“I promise.”

Colloredo kept his voice placid and solid with all the edge of asperity concealed. He knew he was now in a position which he had forget he was capable of for decades. He was trained as a priest during some certain time in his youth, conversation like this worked no easier than engaging a confession, he must have every last drop of patience counted.

“It’s something about a demon child.”

“Would you like to be more precise? You have my gratitude, Master Salieri.”

“It’s…all rumors, there are people saying that he has a demon child at his side. He sometimes even talks about it when he isn’t sober, sometimes praises it like a gift of Heaven, sometimes reviles it like it’s breaking his bones. I thought I’d never concern such gossips of superstitious vulgarity. People talks about anything when they are pickled and reeled.”

_Huh._

“Did he ever talk to you about such thing?”

“No.” The back of the musician tensed, his head dropped a bit yet continued. “We are…not that close. He never gets drunk before me, and he never reveals too much, he remains to be a respectful peer to me, I him. But his connection first with the Masons then the Assassins concerns me. I once capture an Assassin, who I pushed to divulge their plan on Mozart, because as I have stated my opinion, they could have reached better target. Mozart is talented, but he is not a person for such cooperation, especially not long-term.”

“So you get something useful?”

“I’m not sure. All I get is something about a demon child, coincides with those rumors.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Her, actually.”

Colloredo startled, the Italian remained immobile, whose expression was hidden from him.

“She didn’t last long, as far as I can tell she knew nothing more either.”

“Then do you believe her?”

It in fact took him a few seconds to choose the right question to sustain the conversation, much to his relieve, the other man picked up almost immediately.

“I don’t know, but I want to believe. How can a mortal reach the perfection anyway?”

Colloredo paused, then quietly laughed to himself somewhat bitterly. “…Si, Wie kann es möglich sein?. All-too-human, aren’t we?”[1]

The night was long and cold, enormous transience of warmth flashed their life and death in the smoldering fire in the hearth, endowing the spacy room a greater heat of comfort while sucking it into an eternality of tedious dancing sparkles. Colloredo murmured something to himself and reached out for his drink but stopped by a sharp twinge on the corner of forehead.

The silver goblet fell off the verge of the table, something was not right. There was a flash of light in his sight, he startled, his skin suddenly tightened as a fainted smell of blood raise. He raised his hand and check if there is a cut but the skin on his hand remain intact. Strange. Colloredo frowned at the increasing smell of blood, which strangely propel his curiosity rather than vigilance.

There was something on his finger.

He dropped his gaze then the breath was caught immediately in this throat. A fresh cut was not there a few second ago now grew larger and deeper, blood was drilling along his finger, the wound enflamed like an infection, he blinked then the blood covered his both hands – then blood was everywhere.

“No…”

He stumbled a few steps back and leaned his body against the hearth wall for support.

_No, no, no, no, not again._

“Your Grace?” The musician’s voice stirred with concern but became distant as his heart started ponding heavily in his chest.

_Breathe, Hieronymus …breathebreathebreathebreathebreathe...GOD DAMN IT! NOT AGAIN!_

Colloredo clenched his teeth but his strength was leaving him, fear and despair encroached his senses, flocked by vehement pressure of despondent, the black fire of cruelty was swallowing him.

Antonio Salieri turned back, walked towards him vigilantly with the help of his cane. “Are you alright?”

“Go, Herr Salieri, please go. Take…the blade to grand master tomorrow, report to him. Wa…wake up Arco.”

The sudden vertigo hit him, burning heat flowed across his nerve, the vision in his eyes veiled in a color of blood, the light of dead, of madness, twisted in the corner of the small world like a vortex swayed across. A claw gripped his heart and nailed into the pounding flesh, the pain enflamed every inch of his skin. He fell down as an unknown force intimidated him onto his kneels.

“Your Grace!”

_No, not again._

“Go.”

“Stay put.” The Italian rushed to him and tilted his chin to check but as their eyes met, he saw the Italian widened his eyes, jaw dropped in awe. “What the…no, I won’t leave you like this.”

Salieri grabbed his elbow, tried to support his graduate limped body or at least ease his pain and torment, but Colloredo shoved his hand away, his whole body trembled like a leaf by the overwhelming pressure in senses. He did not even know if he still maintained the strength to shake his head. He did not want to be seen in such bewailed wretchedness and madness.

“Go. Report to Grand Master…what we just discussed tomorrow.”

“You must let me help, we can report to him together some other day.”

“…you can’t help.”

“…”

_No Man can._

“…go.”

 

_I’ll be alright. It’s just a dream, everything is just a dream._

_Everything is just a…memory._

_A mistake._

_I’ll be alright. I’ll get through._

 

\--

 

He was seventeen, paced along in the vast corridor. His heartbeat went heavy as the unspeakable uneasiness cast larger shadow.

“Hieronymus!”

Colloredo turned around when someone was calling his name, a young lady popped out from one of the decorated side door, then shut it carefully without making a sound. The whole palace was relatively quiet. Her soft laughter was tender like velvet, the long dress of orient silk and trims of laces looked new and scrupulously arranged which she lifted carefully, she moved by precipitating no sound like a little lark landed on the white sand.

“Maria Isabella? When…Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with Franz now? Wait, where is Franz?”

Her lissome finger raised, gently pressed against his lips. He silenced with a lingering smile mirroring hers.

“Anna. I told you to call me Anna.”[2]

The young man wanted to protest, perhaps reasoning her it was inappropriate, but was taken back by how the other one frowned crossly with a stubborn expression.

“Well then…Anna.”

She smiled.

“I will join Franz later. They told me it’s you that going out for first mission tonight.”

Colloredo startled. He stepped a little backward as he looked both ways of the corridor – the door of his father’s study room still heavily shut – then led the young lady to another way towards a somewhat concealed balcony. The destination was not a pleasant place considering how much more accommodation the Palais Colloredo could have provided, but he hated those servants in Palais Colloredo: serving-men of blue garb in the hereditary halls had supercilious smiles, solicitous maidens wagging tongues. The moon had just rose whose cold tone edulcorated by the zephyr of early summer, Colloredo assumed they could have some privacy for a little talk in the pleasant open air of evening. The pale gibbous moon veiled the vicinities of the small remote garden in silver, beguiling one into confiding their sweetest secrets.

“Who told you this? Franz?”

The princess from the House of Mansfeld bit her lips, avoiding direct answer. “Forget about Franz! Every one of us knows you are going to be the youngest Templar in Austria, the Order gives you the nomination not your brother. So I don’t think it’s the point.”

“It is.”

“Who cares? After tonight you will be conferred the title.”

“Anna it’s…”

“Please, Hieronymus, at least put down your face of the Prince of Melancholy? Since when the characteristic of languish has you charmed? You know what tonight means if you succeed the trial.”

The breeze softened even more, the young princess almost rolled her eyes on how pensive her friend had become. Colloredo smiled, and scratched the back of his head.

“Yeah you are right. It’s not like I’m gonna take back my throne from a creepy uncle or something.”[3]

They both let out a soft laughter, then stared at each other for a while, immersing themselves in the cool summer breeze and the sight of the one on the opposite. The young lady grew her blonde hair long and volume upon which the silver light of moon reposed. She burst into a soft chuckle, the little wooded area was hushed and quiet and suddenly a nightingale warbled and the area came to life. Colloredo automatically laughed with her without knowing himself.

“Why you are staring at me, Hieronymus? Something on my face? Is it my make up? Are my eyebrows uneven? Or my jewelries too banal?”

“No no, none of that. You look…perfect. Everything is perfect.”

He remembered she bit her lips as she smiled, looked up to him through her long eyelashes, passion divulged itself as stars glinted in her sapphire blue gaze.

“Thank you. You look perfect as well.”

There lingered a transience of mutual silly giggling, of youth and naïveté of passion.

“Are you really so nerves? About tonight?” She suddenly asked.

“No…uhm…I mean, yes, very nerves. I have bad feelings.”

“That’s why you wandering in the corridor for ten minutes instead of going straight to your father’s study room? He’ll be pissed if he knew.”

“He will, I just…”

“Stop lamenting your bad feelings, you always have them. I will be there, you know, the leading ones from the House of Mansfeld and the House of Colloredo will…ALL, be there. Even if those Assassin won’t take the bait…”

“I know, Anna, I know. That’s not what I worry about. It’s those heretical deities and those ancient things. They creep me out very time when I dig deep in our library.”

“Don’t be. Papa always says they are the guidance, the beacon.”

“I’m not that sure. What if…What if something go astray? You know the Assassins, they have more linages of those bloody things than we do, to bait them with a relic?”

“But we have you, a legendary sight bearer.”

“Anna…”

“Shhh, stop it.” She silenced him with her thin finger again, the tender light in her gaze shined determinedly. The princess was only two years elder than him[4], but already looked like a woman of full blossom in both physical and mental state. “If things really go wrong, Hieronymus…”

The young lady placed something into his hand, it was a dagger, not a heavily decorated one for showing off but one of simple and tough style with deft craft, the deadly steel reflected chilling gleam in the cut-out leather sheath by the moonlight.

“If, things really go astray, then go kill someone.”

He opened his mouth to say something but eventually without a word coming out. He realized he wasn’t sure about this either, he shook his head.

“Don’t worry about me, Anna. Just promise me be careful, will you?”

“I will, Hieronymus. You too.”

 

\--

 

Bleeding Effect, that was what they call it, or **_the Curse_** if some people in his life were on a bad mood. He seldom complained because how could it not be anyway?

“Long time, Hieronymus.” The man on the other side still looked like the first time they have met, the face of his own stayed in his thirties by the stagnation of time.

The room this time was empty and plain. It lost its enchanted echo and wisps of flowing senses. It was an ordinary room of darkness, he stood on the surface of water, the other one appearing in front of him did not posture a smile. The shadowy water remained still.

“Why now?” Colloredo asked.

“You know the answer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then think.”

“…”

“Finish what you started, imprison what you unleashed.”

“...”

“He is yours, and yours alone.”

“Save your riddles, divulge your intention.”

The other man remained silent. Colloredo felt a sudden breeze across the stillness of the vast emptiness.

“It’s not about my intention and I’m not the one who drag you down, I thought you understood well enough.”

“Then I say this game of word is getting old.”

“But you still haven’t figure it out, have you? You have wasted your lifetime on dabbling on the surface.”

The other man darted his eyes down to the water they stood upon as he spoke. A giant shadow surged up onto its surface with a waning light then swam down into darkness. The whole void trembled at its chthonic approach of its unspeakable magnitude. Neither travail nor piety failed to be moot if it decided to transgress the sheer water face, the theriomorphic flagrant shadow had no name, but a flash of looming gaze from abyss was all it would take to shatter the mightiest courage and virtue asunder.

“Powerless, are we?” He smiled.

Colloredo clenched his fists.

“Not every image and shape could be explained, not every chaos could be tamed into the frame of order, not every step of further-more strut with a guaranteed exemption from ruination. I recognize the power of such grandeur of the misty shadow of nowhere, those beasts and monsters of insanity who like the whip and rein snarling and glaring, of ancient triumph of arrogance and brutality that ever-exiting, immanent and surrounding. I recognize all of these as a sign of humbleness of my own, but as long as I still have a breath in my life, no matter how old I have become, I will not kneel to this THING.”[5]

Silence breathed like a zephyr, stirred into a wind with distant sound. The other man looked into his eyes, and he did not recoil at his piercing gaze.

“A lifetime is mere a transience for them, they are old, you are not but…senile.”

Colloredo grinded his teeth while the other one smirked.

“Nevertheless, I’m your friend.” The man arched his eyebrow. “Ever have I let you lose into inferiority? That’s our little self-defense, isn’t it?”

“Since when we’re friends?”

“Oh, you just got a new friend, how could I not see? He is impressive and handsome, he has better thing to offer, doesn’t he?”

Such frivolous words struck him like a thunder of premonition, denoting nothing but destruction of himself, his life and the people around him. Colloredo stormed towards the other man but their distance did not reduce by any.

“What are you doing? Leave him alone!”

“Huh, you care about him? You just met but you have already desired him, haven’t you? Therefore no, you leave him alone, it’s all you.” The other man of the same face walked over like a predator approaching his prey, his hand reached out, tracing his jawline by his gloved thumb. “You have a pretty face, Hieronymus.” The hand slid slowly down to his chest and abdomen. “And a perfect body. He won’t complain.”

“…leave him alone.” He snared.

“I’m not the culprit. It’s all your fault.”

“…”

“If you want him, I’ll let you, you’ll never lose. But admit it, Hieronymus, it’s never enough that’s why **_you_** denounce everything in your life like a licentious child – for the first time you steal a peek of the true power of gods, the flaming glory of immortality, the acme of power and strength of how far you can go through that piece of Eden you have broken, you know you can never let it go. You pretend you have forgotten it, buried it into the furthest desert of your mind, and even every time when passion floods and lifts, you counter the perpetual struggle by hide yourself into the your cowardly bleeding illness[6], it keeps coming back – you, keep coming back. It’s already in your veins and your heart, bouncing your life into being. It is your fate. You will fly to it like a moth and let it burn your wings, just one rapture glance then to die as your fate.”

“…”

“You perhaps will not kneel before **_it_** , but one day you will kneel before me and take whatever I give you.” One of his hands pressed onto his waist, seductively stroking the side of his torso, while the other tilted his chin, as his lips hovering over his with whispering breaths. “A kiss first, then the whole bliss of sensational union, the everlasting peace and comfort, and safety. You know me as a deity you carry around for decades. I offer you the promise of happiness, of power, and even of omnipotence, in so far as these are attributes of divinity. Answer me, my Prince of Eternity, my Grand Master, my incarnation. It’s our last chance – let me be your sun, your light, your fire. Let me be your death, and your life.”[7]

 

\--

 

April in Salzburg in 1774 was relatively dry but not hard.

“You will be eaten up by your office, Hieronymus.”

“If you are in my position you will drag your husband to become your chair and your dog your barking feet wipe, and grab them both up and bite to ease your nerve, which means thirty times a day at least.” Colloredo did not raise his head from his papers and reports, answered in a plain voice while making a joke.

Maria Antonia von Arco rolled her eyes, straightened her body leaning against the door frame, and walked towards his desk, then took out his papers from his hand with one determined pull.

“Enough, Hieronymus. Go take a rest, some Czernins will hold a masquerade tonight, I heard.”

Colloredo did not move, instead gesturing the very piles of papers now in the noble woman’s hand by a slight tilting chin.

“Take a look yourself.”

The noble woman from Arco family was never a simple-minded artificial being with long dresses and laces. She skimmed through the thick compile, and her face turned sullen.

“What is this? Since when Maximillian starts to be such a brat?”

“Since I become the Prince-Archbishop.”

Colloredo answered and sagged back into his seat.

“By God, does he even know what he is doing? Raising taxes on cereal import? In late April? Don’t they have their tax plans been complicated enough like conundrum? I get it, Salzburg is his target but…”[8]

“I’m his target.” Colloredo raised one finger and corrected her in a tired voice but the lady did not bother his interruption at all.

“…but does he even consider the possible resultant protest and revolt in his own region? It hurts himself more than us. Don’t think too much of yourself, it’s an odd move.”

“I’m not. The point is, I doubt whether this is his decision, he sells his own royal jewelries to buy food for his people in order to ameliorate the hunger couple of years ago when famine strikes, we all know him.”

Maria Antonia frowned. “So you mean it is indeed a personal assault but not from him? No, Maximillian is not strong but he’s not stupid. This move is raising import taxes on products of basic needs, no mention they had relied themselves on cereal import to compensate their own in last four years and it works well. Bavarians are by no means ripe for this change, not especially they haven’t forgotten how the hunger feels. We postulate there are indeed sufficient even superfluous food they can provide by themselves now in Kingdom of Bavaria, then what about the price? Price control in such years needs more than a policy paper and state enforcement, it works in delicacy, I can’t recall any one in his court capable of cogitating a thorough plan of balance, especially such a senseless regulation comes by an equivalent senseless rush.”

“How about Ferdinand?”

“You are not serious, is that even legal? We all know each other for more than half of our lives, Ferdinand avoids the Order and he is finicky and quibbling, but he is not a traitor or an ass-hole.”

Colloredo sighed.

“I know, I’m just tossing the dice. I can’t think of any reason why Bavaria want such regulation, according to the information in my hand. But as far as I can tell, this move harms Salzburg first, as the exporting grains from us go firstly and mainly to their regional market. What’s worse is, I have encouraged the farmers to upgrade their facilities, the support from my department has issued large spend and investments, merchants of mechanicals have signed their contracts. People are expecting a harvesting year after a large spend, if our products cannot go out with reasonable price and profit, think what kind of disappointment and waste must ensue. I can’t afford that.”

The cold wind of the last days of April breezed into his study room as the incense of eaglewood scattered in the gentle stir of fresh air.

“I’ll go talk to Ernst, and my father.”

“I can’t borrow money from Arcos anymore. Ferdinand is right, I can’t do it. See it yourself.” Colloredo raffled one compile of documents on his desk into mess, pressing down every urge to just throw all of them just down onto the ground and trample them to pieces then to dust. “Everything is failing! No matter how hard I try it will never be enough to fill up the bottomless hole, I can’t do it!”

“Patient, Hieronymus, when decided to cast a fire in darkness, you are tailed by troubles and even suffering. You are not fight alone. Even if you can’t save Salzburg, it doesn’t mean...”

“But I am the Prince-Archbishop, ** _I am Salzburg!_** ”

Colloredo felt an unlikely indignation flamed across his brain, his work had stressed him too much, day by day threatening his perfect mask of mien and debonair and possibly something more. He was expecting his sudden breach of etiquette may induce the woman to walk directly out of the room who in fact recoiled when his asperity thrived out, but she did not. The lady walked behind his desk, bending down, hugged him gently and pressed a kiss on his temple.

“Go take a walk, Hieronymus. It’s fine. Go for a ride, go for an auction, go find some music, a ball, a masquerade, just get out of this damn chair and do anything but sitting. You will solve the problem, you never fail, but don’t let your work consume you raw.”

Colloredo sighed, squeezed her hand then quickly let go.

“I’ll go and talk to Ernst first, then I will tell Bella you will attend the masquerade tonight, don’t you dare to embarrass me by not showing. May the Father of Understanding guide us, Hieronymus.”

He chuckled.

“May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

 

He didn’t go to the masquerade in the end, though he considered it rather seriously – or perhaps that’s why he didn’t go in the end. By the time when the life in the evening started in Salzburg, the moon shined coldly in the sky, Colloredo found himself sitting in the hall of the local university, the lambent light in the ballroom enveloped the noisy liveness by a sheer glimmering of fresh sweetness. The lively sound of youth and the tittering of harmless jokes lightened his heart more than a bit. Salzburg is not a large region, everybody knows everybody, therefore he hardly found himself any comfort of his own while instantly going under the absorbing stares and ingratiated distance unless locked himself up in his private chapel. But the youth are not tamed by the order of harsh life yet, they could comfortably leave him alone, bowed to him slightly at most if passing by or sometimes even completely ignored him when they were busy at having fun of their own – if he wore casual clothes like tonight – possibly taking him as an ordinary pedagogic scholar by the lambent candle light.

He took a sip of his drink, the piquant sweetness tasted more than satisfying. He in fact seldom drank, his health condition would not allow himself to indulge such pleasure of life, as for him even daily meals must be strictly regulated. He persuaded Arco not to follow him, and the old and loyal chamberlain grudged for almost half an hour but eventually didn’t come. It was an evening for chamber music and simple casualty, the serenade flowed its modulated emotional cadence with great skills, it felt comfortable, but somewhat tedious, even soulless, nothing special.

He took another sip of his drink, trying to drive out the up-surging plans on the orchestra.

“Why you are here?”

Before he figured out from which direction the voice came, a man had threw himself into the chair beside him then flung his legs onto the table like nothing more natural. He had no mannerism at all, he was young and blonde, Colloredo thought he was a presumptuous new student in Salzburg University, he held a whole bottle of alcohol in his hand instead of a goblet. Colloredo frowned and was about to scold him, but suddenly a flash of memory flickered, he realized he had known this boy somewhere.

And he was not a boy anymore.

“…Wolfgang Mozart?”

The young man grinned brightly, his eyes lost none of its striking blue under the waning candle light, which reflected everything lively and cheeky. He still remained pale and lean, but Colloredo could tell he possibly had already grown to the same height as himself, he didn’t have broad shoulder but masculine of maturity had already took its form in his body frame. He grew fast.

It had been two years since the last time the boy crawled into the bed of his Prince-Archbishop, and Colloredo in fact did not pay too much attention to him since then, on one hand he dealt him in such way on purpose, on the other hand he indeed did not have any privilege of leisure time to indulge an affair. Maria Antonia was right, his office was eating him up.

“It’s not your night, isn’t it?” Colloredo felt a strange potency of urge to continue the talk, he casted a glance to the orchestra in the middle of the room then back to his silver goblet.

“Nah, they don’t play my music tonight. You ain’t got any luck this time. You know I don’t compose shit like dead wood. I hate these mother-fuckers of no talent.” Wolfgang Mozart put down his bottle in which contained brandy by its smell.

“Watch your language in front of me.”

“But you’ve heard more, haven’t you?”

Wolfgang Mozart leered him a soft wink, he of course knew what this flirty youth was talking about. How could he forget that filthy little mouth taste sweet like candy and cream? But he smiled, leaned his body a little more away from the younger man.

“Then should I come by some another day?”

Such little trick of social play from real adults of high society almost immediately put its charm into effect. The young man put down his legs in a flash, leaned his body towards the Master of Salzburg like he was going to grab the sleeve of the noble man to prevent him from leaving.

“No, but that’ll depend on what you come here for, your Highness. For instance, why you are here tonight?”

“To enjoy a night of music without disturbance.”

“If you are here to enjoy some music tonight…” He stood up, swiveled the chair and sat down backwardly, straddling, folding both his arms on the top of the wooden back where he rested his chin. He looked directly into his eyes in which stars glittering with passionate tease. “I am the music.”

Colloredo for one second or more wondered if this young man was flirting or challenging, but in the end he laughed quietly and put down his drink.

“Lead the way then.”[9]

 

They actually ended up in Colloredo’s bedroom again because Wolfgang Mozart in fact did not have a place for such privacy. Colloredo had never thought about one day he’d trespass into his own resident together with a scandalous companion, calculating the routine of patrol guardians set by himself, climbing up the fair white wall, hiding away from sight, grabbing the other maladroit noisy little bastard to stay close and quiet, and took one leap with racing heart beats. He thought he would never have opportunities to put his training in youth to fight as a Templar into full practice anymore since he’d been ordained priest in the last year of his twenties, but thankfully his body still remembered. His skills obvious impressed even astonished the young musician, for Wolfgang Mozart wouldn’t be able to keep his own mouth shut with silly questions of amazement (“My God! How did you do that? Do you learn these from some legendary knight like in poem? Have you ever slain a dragon?”) even after Colloredo tugged the velvet curtain close until the Prince-Archbishop pressed him into his embrace and silenced him by a violent and demanding kiss.

His heartbeats are still racing but he suddenly felt young.

 

It was another long night, and Wolfgang Mozart looked different than he remembered. He was still way too noisy that this time he had to find a fabric to shove into this filthy mouth unless he wanted every servant in his resident to know he was fucking his musician. Such work of privacy guarding was done, in fact, before he tied both of the pale wrists with his belt to the bed stand carved by simple wooden cameo, he could hear the splashing sound of the fountain in the cuvette somewhere down in his garden which interweaved the soft and heavenly sinful pants and moans he drew out from the young man as his hand caressing down to that smooth skin of his inner thigh. These eyes were staring at him with teary pleads, with lust and yearn, and something buried too deep, with a trace of flash then glinted into escape. Wolfgang Mozart was a lover in bed, a situation of which Colloredo found the young man in fact fully acknowledged, yet he still poured out everything in him even he was just a lover in bed. Colloredo was unable to tell was it out of some elusive sophistication or just youthful naivety.

He preferred neither.

“Relax, my star.” He murmured and dipped his oil and semen clothed finger into that entrance of secret pleasure.

 

Judging by the moonlight, the night was still lingering its last hours. Colloredo woke up and felt the body pressed against his chest was gone, he pushed up on an elbow, then saw a thin figure kneeling in front of his desk, for one second he thought Wolfgang Mozart was confessing but then he heard the susurrate sound of friction and realized the other man was writing something rather quickly.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Composing.”

His voice was rather emotionless as he immersed himself totally in his work, and little dull and coarse, which was expectable after Colloredo fucked him into three maybe four organism until nothing came out but wet whines begging for mercy. He wore only a large shirt which belonged definitely not him. His legs are naked, the half-dried traces of leaked semen from his little hole are too conspicuously clear and visible on his skin under the moonlight.

_It’s quite a sight._

Colloredo noted to himself and did not continue the talk as the young man still occupying himself in whatever he was writing down in front of the desk, his whole back tensed, shoulders shrugged up like his energy was going to explode from there if he decided drilling himself into the piles of papers burdening the fecundity of his work when the culmination came.

“I must go, you know. My father will kill me if he discovers I’m out for a whole night, Nannerl...my sister can’t cover for me for too long.” He didn’t push his head up or change any of his position, his talk came out as something automatic and distant from himself, yet lucid and clear.

“Does she know?”

“Know wha…oh, no, of course no. I’m not stupid.”

Colloredo straightened himself a bit as the tide of sleepiness ebbed a little. He wondered how this young man still manage to work after utterly spend. He was unable to tell was it because the young bastard did not pour out his everything in fact or because he himself was truly getting old.

He found himself preferred neither as well.

“There you go!”

He suddenly jumped up and walked back to bed, handed the piles of paper to the noble man sitting in the mattress.

“Now?”

The musician didn’t answer him, instead he turned over and started to pick up the clothes on the ground and get dress.

His writing was untrained, but the format of composing was strictly arranged and every detail pushed. On the corner of the first page, there stood the writing careful and neat: K.203, Colloredo.

The prince-archbishop glanced over the musician, the latter still busy at dressing himself, back towards him, but his ears were flushing. The older one smirked.

“It’s for me?”

“It’s…not perfect, maybe I’ll do some change later, but still a D. major… I’ll let you know. Keep this for me, will you?”

Before Colloredo could answer, the young man quickly pecked a kiss on his temple.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“…”

“I have to go.” He rushed to the window and climbed out.

 

\--

 

He woke up. The banal sound of the fireplace emanated a strange warmth that took ascendency of all his recovered senses, it was the only light and heat of all the darkness of night. The storm ranged outside, but it mattered nothing.

“Vo…vostra Grazia…per favore fermata!”

The scattered sound of breaths, the warmth of flesh trembled in his grip, the smell of blood, the dark hairs spilling on his face like silk veiling the nightfall. He forced the other man’s neck to the ground by brutal strength, he bit his teeth, the dark blue eyes lost focus as his wet groans connoting nothing but agony and humiliation. He heard his own bellow which filled with vehement lust and vitality but sounded nothing like human. The body at his mercy was covered by marks of bite and fight, his lower body slammed into the warmth of flesh, grinding out every last piece of his broken sound of pain, he pleaded in his mother language, the exotic Italian was such a creature, such a sinful and arousing creature deserved the punishment of Heaven.

_Why would I stop? Don’t you feel our bliss? Aren’t you enjoying it?_

_…Wait…No…_

_God no…_

He woke up.

He woke up by a cold sweating and tightened chest, he knew he also woke up by a sudden sitting up, there is no memory at all this time how he broke out of that too small or maybe too large dark room of nowhere. The bustling sound of day life came to his ear, cold sunlight casted its golden ray on the soft and dry sheet, there lingered a fainted smell of mouldy dust. The curtain remained drew, he could see the empty garden once of lush prosperity now stood only the drained fountain and dead wood. The walls obliterated the sight of street, but the bustling sound of life still came to his ears. There is no water surface, no other man of the same face, no fireplace, no stormy night, no Antonio Salieri.

 _Wait_.

Colloredo shifted uncomfortably as he now felt a certain part of his lower body was still embarrassingly hard. Then he saw Antonio Salieri, who sat at the other side of the bedroom, slowly raised up from his chair. His cane still held in his left hand, his whole body frame tensed like a leopard of dangerous grace stepping into a hunt.

Colloredo felt his stomach tightened, the evidence of that bewildering grotesqueness lingered like a mockery.

“How long have I been…”

“Seven maybe eight hours.” His voice was low and cold, emotionless at all. He examined him by intensive gaze, a few seconds later, his shoulder softened a little. “So it’s ** _you_** are talking now?”

Colloredo nodded.

The silence regained its potency again, Colloredo straightened his body a bit, but the prattling mental sound of chains engendered his awareness of his situation at once. He raised his wrist, the heavy shackle chained both of them to the corner of the bed stand.

_He…chains me up?_

“Seriously?” He shoot Italian a glare of bitter pique.

Antonio Salieri shrugged. “They are there, as I can’t think of any other possibility why they remained so conspicuous judging by the situation last night. There are only two bedrooms in the palace not locked, Count Arco occupied the downstairs one, then this one is yours. Clearly the chains are put here for a reason, and I know they are not of pleasure purpose.” He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small rusted key, then tossed towards the Prince-Archbishop chained to the luxury bed. “And they are decades of old.”

Colloredo caught it but did not immediately open the lock. Instead he clenched it into his fist and leaned his head against the bed stand, shut his eyes and let out a heavy sigh as the light of sun tinted his pale face gold.

“Don’t blame me.”

“No I won’t. You did it right.” He opened his eyes and posed a weak smile.

Antonio Salieri bowed slightly, Colloredo now noticed he wasn’t looking well at all. He must have spent a whole night without any sleep, his wound remain hurt without any dealing which his standing posture had said all. As to those eyes of blood-shot with dark circles, they showed only weary and exhausted spirit.

“Please take your time to collect yourself, your Grace. Count Arco will wake up perhaps tonight, I didn’t know my new narcotic agent is so powerful. But I will come back with my doctor late in the afternoon, he is an old of friend of mine, highly trustworthy and renowned for his skills. If now I may excuse myself.”

“Thank you, Herr Salieri. I owe you.”

The musician lowered his eyes and tipped his head, then walked towards the door and opened it, but there lingered a hesitation as he stopped with his hand resting on the door knob, glanced back to Colloredo with a pithy glint in his eye.

“So it’s real. Your story is real, you have the legendary sight and touched the Apple when you are young, you accessed the forbidden source which brings you destruction and sickness but also something more, something unspeakable. That’s why your brother, the Grand Master of Wien stays out of any vicinities around your influence and reins you back in Salzburg by isolation?”

Colloredo remained silence, scanned the other man before casting his gaze into the desolated garden again.

“What do I look like last night?”

“A creature in his utmost wretchedness, a god in his grief of birth.”

Colloredo turned back, his gaze this time became more piercing. Malicious memories surged back as he tightened his grip on the sheet. “Are you not afraid? I could have harmed you and I’m capable of.”

“But you didn’t. All-too-human, aren’t we?”

Colloredo shook his head.

“Besides, you can’t harm me, don’t be too confident about yourself, your Grace. I’ve seen worse.”

Antonio Salieri stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

 

TBC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]I’m quoting, not Colloredo.  
> [2]This is in fact debatable. There are versions of stuffs I browsed in library indicate that she had this nickname, “Anna”, but no precise sources i.e., epistles cited, so “Anna” as her nickname remains debatable. See note [4].  
> [3]Young lovers play with the lines of Hamlet more often than not end badly. (oops  
> [4]No, historically Maria Isabella was born in 1750, so historically Colloredo was eighteen (!) years elder than her in fact. And, no again, the marriage between she and Franz (Franz Gundaccar von Colloredo-Mannsfeld) is somewhat O.K, Colloredo has no affairs involving with her. So I think this will be OK to add the Anna nickname here just as a reminder of distinguishing her from the historical Maria Isabella von Mansfeld, Princess von Fondi. The House of Mansfeld is often connected to a knight order called “The Golden Fleece”, and she was the last heir of the Mansfeld. Yep, I’m talking about that damn shroud. WRITE A FUCKING GERMAN REGION STORYLINE UBISOFT!!!  
> [5]I’m giving a Talion of Gordon, the Gravewalker a shoutout! Anyone has played the Shadow of War? It has ripped my heart out. Though, personally, I hate the devs of Monolith. They in fact have this great masterpiece ruined into a cheap and tedious best-seller of mechanical reproduction by now. Therefore I really don’t know if I'd say I highly recommend the series or not. The whole story setting and character building are highly inspired by philosophical ideas, i.e., of Søren Kierkegaard and of Friedrich Nietzsche, and Orcs are sexually harassing Talion quoting Plato. However, now I really doubt the devs have any idea of what level a work Michael Forgey left to them to finish. R.I.P MF.  
> [6]Historically, Colloredo has blood phobia. I relate it to an enhanced version of Bleeding Effect.  
> [7]All my love goes to C.G Jung! And, this encounter can be viewed as with der Tod from Elizabeth, if you want to. And you can regard the shadow of Colloredo ist der Tod, if you want to. Anyway Mark Seibert has played both characters (Uwe Kröger as well). So it’s kinda convenient to start such a crossover.  
> [8]No, it’s something never happens. Maximillian III is not a strong ruler, but not that weak and troublesome. And that selling his own jewelries to pay the food import in 1770 for Bavarian people, it is real.  
> [9]Guys, to woo a prince-archbishop in 18th century in such manner, they’ll jail you. Just note.


	4. To Those Who Walk Alone

 

 

 

 

**PLEASE READ THE NOTE BELOW BEFORE YOU CONTINUE THIS CHAPTER!**

**PLEASE READ THE NOTE BELOW BEFORE YOU CONTINUE THIS CHAPTER!**

 

 

 **First of everything all,** apology for my slack updating which...well, I just can't speed up. I originally planned to do a huge update in one chapter now decided to break it into two, therefore, you will have one main story chapter four and a special episode chapter five, the latter will be posted in couple of days - chp4 is long enough anyway, and it is no beta reading, don't be too surprised at those silly spelling bugs. "Writing is hard." (Chuck faced

 **Second,** about this updating, you will find more characters didn't appear in the original musical merging here, because I intend to construct a broader landscape that aiming to lit the story to a light that more making sense.

 **Third,** in order to do and as a result of doing so, I added another more proper relationship here, Hieronymus Colloredo (when he was young) and Wenzel Anton Kaunitz(yes!!!), the fifth chapter will be mostly about them, H.C and W.A.K instead of H.C and W.A.M, which is also the reason I decide to regard the fifth chapter as a special episode. Therefore, be relax, you can skip the chapter if you really not so comfortable with it, though I highly recommend you read it, because I think it’s really great. About that part, I will write a more thorough note when Chapter Five posted (SOON!!). Just go check Wenzel Anton Kaunitz, I will still scream the same line: WRITE A FUCKING GERMAN STORY LINE, UBISOFT!

**The following paragraph is originally an annotation (number 5, actually) within the chapter, but after I typing it so long I decided to put it here, it briefly explains some context between struggle of "Culture" and "Civilization" in German discourse, it may help you understand the story and the original musical. But if you already know it well enough, just skip it, don't waste your time :-)**

 

 

 

 

> Germans insist the unbridgeable difference between the "culture"(Kulture) and "civilization"(Zivilisation), the struggle of Germany back then, is always ruffling upon such context ( though later you will find philosophers like Wilhelm Dilthey opposes such distinction). In German usage, the Kultur is a value of "achieving", stands more for a active status of gaining through effort and self-cultivation (on knowlege, art, status, self-development, etc.), it is rooted within the struggle of the second class (mostly those scholars, intellectuals, musicians, aritists, later include wealthy citizens etc.) being shut away from a upper society, upon who, they reflected themselves and generated their own self-awareness, i.e., being non-upperclass, exlusivily unique and speak German. While Zivilisation, it is a value of "being already existed", more "achieved" stable status that manifest itself as social standard, behaviors, etiquette, and everything, and it belongs to the nobles, the ruling class, the upper ones, the ones hold the reins of power, with the "universal" fruit and speak French. They despise each other, for the second class believed the upper ones "achieving nothing" but "being polite", while the upper ones view them as "uncivilizad people" with "no discipline" knowing nothing about the good world of civilization, a.k.a the mode of France (Bourbon was really doing great for some time back then), thus the marriage/love/friendship between them is not even possible - completely not possible (think about it, it's 17'c even 18'c already!), if you are looking for an example that, when money is not omniponent, this is it. The middle-class of Europe rise through the gaining of wealth, but in German region, nah, no way you can buy your way into true upper world, and trust me, when money cannot do that, talent will be in vain as well (Goethe is exceptional, but that's because the court of Weimar is too petty and the whole situation of Weimar is special, even uncanny).
> 
> Thus you can say "Kulture" in German are something **through achieving**  that belongs only to German exclusively. It is accompanied by all those emotion and collective memories of struggling wisdom and talent, of anxiety that cannot find one's place, the uneasiness being stared upon as an outsider like young Werther, being despised of, being subject, being standing but without a voice.
> 
> Now you see the problem? The second class of "Kultur" is always on the fighting to get their own position within the recogintion of the upper "Zivilisation", one hand to gain the living, the other to escape the life of parents and step into a better world like those talented people in France, even it is just an illusionary struggle and empty colorful dream. Or what do you think Constance is singing in _Irgendwo Wird Immer Getanzt_? If just dreaming and wishing for some beautiful simple life with hope, then why not use the style of "My Fair Lady" but all the way to intensity? And check the lifestory of Rousseau and you will understand how disgusting (but only from the perspective of nowaday) Leopold is planning for his son.
> 
> What Mozart is breaking free of is the whole struggle of nonsense (Like "Oedipus rebellion, culture and civilization, family-romance shithole, then what? Then I'm not regret? what the hell?"), altogether with what Colloredo was sing/warning in the _Der Enfache Weg_ , in the musical, man, it gives goosebumps realizing how thoroughly this problem is taken on. The hardtime of "culture" was not relieved until the rise of nationalism, when "culture" finally gains an identity being exclusive, not among the upper one but the lower ones, to take a root that will nourish and burn...well, it's a tragic experience of German. When France and Britain allied and fight German in WWI by the name of civilization, culture was pushed to a more desperate place. The following everthing you already knew (again). In fact, it possibly will be a German fate to settle the question of "Kulture", to find a proper color to paint when asking "what is German", for it never quiet down even today, the struggle of "culture" is still active, like how could things be "German" if not "exclusive"? Can "Multicultural" be truly possible here? You know what am talking about. And, I really don't think the Turkish-German people know what they are trying to touch.
> 
> \---
> 
> The situation involving the third class is not discussed here, bcs, well I'm lazy.
> 
> Talk to me! Love all your feedback and comment and whatever!! *kissess*
> 
> ==
> 
> End of the Note
> 
>  

 

 

 

 

 

**Chapter 4 To Those Who Walk Alone**

 

“A special courtier from the central court? Not the empress herself but Joseph?” Colloredo arched his eyebrow. “I thought Joseph has been done with me for years. Hardly can imagine what he wants this time. I’m not obliged to obey his order by a striker sense.”

“Hardly can imagine, indeed. Maybe to prevent Salzburg from being too closely allied with Duke of Milan, no mention Governor-General of Lombardy had a special interest here, he is a Firmian anyway. Joseph will be the emperor someday but now he won’t be too happy if his little younger brother …” Ernst paused as he coughed, taking out his handkerchief and wiping out the thin sweat on his forehead. He looked paler than Colloredo remembered last Sunday.

Colloredo frowned, gestured a servant to bring him a large chair. Ernst seemed to be a little embarrassed when he had to arrange himself serval times to fully sit comfortably into it, though after doing so he showed obvious relief.

“You don’t look well today, Ernst.”

The other man chuckled with his usual humor and delight. “Well, then my apology to disappoint you, but you know how hard for me to deal with court life. I’m a man of letters and books, you should consider to entrust me of the Salzburg public library or something, I’ll cultivate it into a Library of Alexandra.”

“Then it’ll be a waste of source in my court, Ernst. Your wisdom is always precious to me, Salzburg needs you to be more than a librarian.”

“Then don’t complain I look no fabulous, Excellence.” The Lordron man adjusted himself in the soft chair a bit then gestured around, lips thinned then shrugged. “Staying in court is an unhealthy life, and it’s not even a provisional choice for me now.”

Ernst was rapidly gaining weight in recent years, though some of those doctors told Colloredo who as a close family friend to him, it was possibly a result of swelling, and his attitude that over-devoting himself into work helped nothing, more likely to cause abasia if situation worsened. He was only five years elder than him, but the husband of Maria Antonia von Arco looked flabby and effete, the pouch below his eyes are huge and slack, those nostrils flared like the air was in privation. There was never a time when all of them were free of trouble and pain, but must there be a time when all of them were young and beautiful, but now? Colloredo must be blind not to notice his whole person has puffed into a larger shape, the health of his dear friend was rapidly failing.

Hieronymus wanted him to be healthy and happy just like all the friends would want each other to, he knew Ernst since he was still in Stiftung Theresianische Akademie. The Prince-Archbishop turned around to avoid such sight, knowing himself didn’t want to deal with some ineluctable truth. But he meant what he just said, Salzburg needed him, both his wisdom and sources. Ernst was a walking library, this amazing man drew inspiration from the past and papers, but never failed to help Colloredo out when he needed most.

“Don’t worry about me. I know my duty here.” The other man suddenly spoke, casually. “Just the meeting in the afternoon I’m afraid my body won’t allow me to continue any more. I’m not a fool of blind positive, I’ll need some days to rest. My Maria Antonia will pick me up later, don’t bother to arrange a ride.”

“Granted.”

Ernst stood up, walked towards the desk covered by scrolls and reports, sighed. “These may take you weeks to finish.”

“I know.”

“And we don’t have weeks to deal with that stupid Bavarian tariff anymore. Bavaria is getting ridiculous on us. People wakes up to every sunrise, market operates every day even night, the expending has been too large. Protesting from both the public and the court are to force us into most unfavored situation if happens. We need a plan of more than reform, sometimes instauration must be counted as well. You are getting radical, my friend.”

“I know.”

“Do you have any specific strategy on this? You can’t compensate the market price forever, it has emptied your budget already since you insist lend no money from none of us. We won’t make it if we don’t get out of this bottomless hole.”

“I know. That’s why I have specific plan for that special courtier from Joseph.”

Ernst eyed him a puzzled look.

“I want to bribe him.” Colloredo turned around, smiled confidently at his friend, who was shocked in awe. “I’ve waited for a chance like this for two years. Joseph thought he may seek total guidance and control of Salzburg by watching us starve and collapse, to shove us to the ridiculousness of Maximillian then we will kneel and plead and cry for his offering hand like he is God himself – He is a fool, a monkey who reads and writes but thought himself to be amongst the great when everything in his life was nothing but citing and quoting and mimicking.”[1]

“But…”

“No, Ernst, don’t.” Colloredo didn’t let him start any argument of objection, voice remained mild but assertive, if not somewhat cold. “I’m not planning to change any of our policies that aims to bring the beacon of this age to enlighten Salzburg, not even by any details to compromise those stupidities even if Empress herself ordered it. Being radical or not I don’t care but details are always insidious, that’s why devils are in them. So the suggestion of instauration is meaningless, Ernst, don’t ever bring up such word in front of me again – ever. Salzburg is not going back to the past old days, I know what I’m doing, and we,” Colloredo rendered the other man a pithy look of volition, the way the other man needed a reminder to know himself being reprehensibly weak and doubtful. “…do what we must. Sententious rectitude can never be count on in court, we must start to plan having our own people in congress. Let the enemies fear us, let our fortress hold, let people be free and educated by ** _the way they should_** when out of poverty and debt, Ernst, we do what we must.”

The book worm of Lordron frowned at the words of his friends, he paused a second then suddenly like something sparkled in his mind. “Is it about the Chancellor? Does he ask you to do so?”

Colloredo glared at him but the old friend had no intention dropping the topic. “Does he?”

“Wenzel Anton never ask me to do anything for him, this is my plan. Why every time…”

“Then unfortunately I don’t think so. Your move always benefits him. That Kaunitz bastard influences you too much, I still hold my opinion that he is using you as a tool to debilitate your own father since you are…” Ernst, realizing he touched some unwanted thing that neither of them especially the Salzburg master did not want to bring up, waved his hand dismissively. “Forget it. Just remember my word: you are a fool on still trusting him – that much, after all of that…shit.”

The Prince-Archbishop sighed.

“I don’t want to talk about this, Ernst. The Colloredos are losing power for sure, but he is not the blame. I have my reason to ally him. I must be a fool if I renounce such a resource for some stupid family morality.”

“Family morality? Excuse me, my friend! You forget he expelled your father from the War Cabinet then later the whole members of Privy Conference for your father is the only sane person who dares to stand up and refuse to start a new war! He is an animal of power and will!”[2]

“That’s not the whole story, you know that.”

Ernst sniffed. “But he is always right in your eyes, always beyond the reach of your reason and critique, no matter how much evidence says the opposite! Even if it is not, then I see I am never wrong about you Templars, you guys are insanely Machiavellists.”

“Then you are very wrong, my friend,” Colloredo put off one of his gloves and turned back. “According to our inner source and legend, Machiavelli devoted his whole life to the Creed of the Assassins.”

“Nah.” Ernst snorted. “You brat misunderstand my word since we are young.” The puffed man stood up with one of the aged servants’ help, while another one handed over his cane immediately. “No, it’s not Nichole Machiavelli I have problem with, you know one can hardly find a more replete mind of boldness and wisdom, to irrupt the most insuperable morality realm and tear it down within, Hieronymus. What I have problem with is,” He tapped his temple lightly. “Insane.”

 

\--

 

So what exactly is in this little word insane? To decide taking back a stolen relic all by himself definitely explained much; never believe the Blood Street was not ever going to be a friendly location for Templars must have said something about it as well.

Anyway, teenagers were always insane, that was why in most cases they were not allowed to make crucial life choices unless life itself happened. He was supposed to be confined the tile as a Templar on the Corpus Christi Day, not standing on the Blood Street, unable to do anything better than fighting like an animal – Goddamn the life choices! Life was never easy and never will be.

The moon suspended high and firework blossom flowered and fell. The resident and sub-public area nearby were almost empty as people had flocked to the cathedral or chapels for holy mass and floral parade and other things he never liked about the church. Colloredo turned his heels all at once when the Assassin shunned, the moment when their swords clashed again, the young man felt his bones were trembling at the strength crackling his resistance. By the grace of Lord, this man was brutally strong and way-beyond-his-levelly skillful, everything about him reminded the young noble of a beast.

They aggressed at each other and struck without drawing back into any proper defense at first yet Colloredo soon realized the balance of violence was sliding and unfavoring him as his breathes grew heavier. This rhythm of battle was something he should not even follow at the first place – he must be a fool let himself being carried away by his stupid ego – he could now only pray Anna would safely reach the Schönbrunn Palace and call reinforcement as soon as possible.

“Not bad, piss pot.”[3] The assassin smirked as his sword shoved Colloredo almost to a stumble. The fight was growing tougher and every move was nearer to be fatal than the last. The moment when his balance was thin, the assassin knocked his sword off, but in a flash light young Colloredo drew out a small dagger, the cold steel would have marked more than a small cut on the assassin’s face if not thanks to the instinctual vigilance during fight that pulled the man back to shun. Colloredo snorted without giving a word – he almost successfully slice his enemy’s throat open. He noticed the other one’s accent was somewhat highly combined, which meant he was not an assassin from their Austria branch, not even a branch of German-speaking, at least not stayed here long enough to let his surrounding modify how the words he uttered should have sounded.

“Not bad indeed.” He wiped the small trace of blood on his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes were fixed on him – the pale hoodie slide off, and now Colloredo saw his face, shocked.

He was about of the same age as him, or perhaps younger.

“You know, last time I encountered a noble puppet in your Order, I dumped his body over a bridge.”

“Savage never fail to suit you peasants when recruited by a cult.” Colloredo derided with no expression.

“Ouch, I’m so hurt, **Monsieur**. But we are onto the same one thing, aren’t we? Which one will be more savage? To burn a whole village just in order to hunt one assassin suspiciously possessing a little golden ball? Or kill a pure-breed pig quick and clean mercifully bypassing all the co-called legal and court process that eventually, as we all know, will spare all his misconducts and evil deeds by letting justice screw in the end, then bonus, we get the little golden ball? It’s quite obvious, right? It is because things not in the order you have calculated and planned and wished, then it must be called savage, what a pity.”

_Huh._

“I don’t know, but narration and rhetoric never pave the ground to reality, and reality per se was not even there at the first place, only interpretation. I thought it is your idea that ‘nothing is true’? Pharisaically practice your creed in the end may only stagnate it into dogmatism, relapse into blindness. By the name of rebelliousness, the bane of humanity that prone to be narrow and one-sided, straitens the mind as well, I guess your cult don’t need you to read any books.”

The assassin laughed. “Look what I’ve got, a future lobbyist and politician in their illusionary high society who fights better with distorted and bended words than a straight sword, preaching their condescending righteousness. But that never matter a dime, does it? You will die here tonight like your ancestors, le sang coule dans cette rue!”

_Wait…French? French assassins?_

“I’m not so sure.” Colloredo narrowed his eyes, yes, he was not sure. “I don’t want to quarrel with you. Drop the box, it’s too dangerous for any human to touch the relics. Drop it now and I’ll let you go, our men will arrive at any time. Ne sois pas idiot.”

The assassin’s cold titter chilled him.

“Oh, excuse me, your men? Vous ne connaissez jamais votre place. Mes hommes sont déjà là.”

Colloredo tensed both at his decent accent of Parisian dialect and the presences needling in his higher sense. He initiated his vision, the crimson light of shadow leaked like drilling blood – he was heavily surrounded – now he was sure, the picture was clear, Austria Assassins had summoned allies from France. They were not taking the bait of Templar reapers, those who thought to be preys now snapping instead in the place of predators. They had already got the relic when the Austria Templars were still bumptiously waiting and celebrating their great plan in the shining bright Schönbrunn Palace, ready to company the power to the walk of glory.

The table had turned in the shadow.

“Der Apfel gehört jetzt zu uns.” One of the Austria Assassins who leaned in the shadow against wall spoke, arms crossed. “Und dennoch scheinen Sie heute in der Unterzahl zu sein. Verschwinde, bevor ich dich umbringe, Kind.”

“Nein.” Colloredo clinched his teeth.

 

 

The early summer night Corpus Christi Day in Vienna back in 1749 shimmered with glittering life and luxury, moon was high and breeze was sweet, all the evening yearn and soft whispers of polished civilization came after, then mawkish and pedantry their nature became, thus a lady wearing night gown rode off in full speed over the busy street of Vienna like she was Artemis herself on the hunting field, was odd and inappropriate. Maria Isabella von Mansfield spurred her horse again, her heart was pounding in her chest like it could no longer stay in her body, she found herself don’t even mind at all. The horse sprinted pass the state library then right through Volsgatten, she probably had knocked out a lady walking with her dog when just entered Burggasse, the guards and garden maidens were yelling behind, polite and lame luxury carriages cringed at her wild ride.

But she did not care. She left Hieronymus behind, all alone facing some Assassin thieves, who in fact had infiltrated way before the Templar rite of Vienna thought they should and stole the Eden relics already. It was a totally disaster, but Lord damn that relic! She realized she cared more about this young man than all these failures.

When she was a little carried away by her thoughts, suddenly a carriage forced itself into her sight and blocked her advance, the time was so short that she almost failed to pull the rein. The bonny horse uneasily adjusted its trots into steps.

“Out of my way! How dare you!” She shouted, half out of annoying and half out of being terrified – God knew what would happen if this horse being not a mature through-breed and well trained. Anyone who didn’t know her might thought her as a perverse lady of inveterate bad behavior by such unassailable rudeness and restlessness. The coach of the carriage of course answered her nothing, instead the velvet curtain of veiled the window drew, the master leaned his head softly out.

“Good evening, apologize for my intervening your night ride, Princess von Fondi.” The man smiled, and stepped out as the outrunner opened the door for him. “Please don’t get bored by my platitude but you will get yourself hurt if keep sending your horse into trot like this.”

Maria Isabella did not change her face as the man walked over and kissed her hand politely.

“Are you heading to Schönbrunn Palace? I heard it’s a big night for the House of Colloredo and the House of Mansfeld, I don’t think you want to be late if you still want to company Her Majesty to the Cathedral.” He looked up and gently offered his hand to the lady on horse, the wrinkles on the corner of his eyes looked amiable, and there hided no levity in his voice, just sincerity and calm. “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask. Come, if you are in a hurry, wherever you are heading, I offer my carriage for a ride. This is a new design of three horses in harness, I’m sure she runs faster than your single Andalusian through-breed beauty. Hopefully I am still able to find a way to propitiate your anger.”

Maria Isabella bit her lips, the summer breeze felt cold on her skin. The more lucid her mind became, the more she realized she was either going to lose the most important person in her life or screw the life she herself and her family had planned for her, there was no time left for ruminating another choice of expediency. Fate was cruel, so cruel that almost brought her to tears in front of a man she was taught and told not to trust. She took his hand and jumped off the horse – This was Wenzel Anton Kaunitz, the best help one could ever imagine to get within the whole Empire of Austria if you are truly in trouble.

She knew she was risking everything, but she was not insane.

“Geheimrat Kaunitz, please, I plead your help!”

 

\--

 

So what is exactly in this little word insane? People are easy to get into it if they just simply saturated their petty nous in the beautiful replica in their mind, replacing the banal reality with something they believe to be true and going to work.

Things like…things like everything about Wolfgang Mozart in his life.

If that late afternoon back to the autumn of 1777 in Salzburg when a musician of no body nearly ruined the first step of his delicately arranged strategy to turn the table on both central court and Bavaria had explained most of the connotation of this little word, then allowing the same musician do it again four years later in Vienna must have all its denotation counted as well.

Ernst was right, he must be insane.

It was hard to explain because Wolfgang Mozart in fact had no place in his life, maybe which was the reason that he found a place in his bed. He fucked him from his last years of puberty through the flourish youth into settled manhood, all those years reflecting in his own life being in pain and illness, and some strange sweet affairs that eventually marred and taken away, buried in some place he himself was unable to locate.

Thus Wolfgang Mozart had a place in his bed, but he was just a musician as his strange pride failed him to be a docile valet or a decent entertainer, or perhaps, his stubborn procrastination even condemned him to be less a musician, and altogether his ill temper asserted that he could not even be used as a weapon.

Then what was him? There must be a reason he glowed in his vision. He had multiple lovers in bed during his life, but none of them glowed, not even the first woman he had sex with, not even…tsk, it doesn’t matter. He still remembered the night when Wenzel Anton Kaunitz took him to the private brothel, the mature chancellor-to-be wore an inappropriately loose night garment, waiting for him in his disguised carriage at the backstreet two blocks away from Stiftung Theresianische Akademie.

A young brat of no man thus should not even find a place in his bed. Wolfgang Mozart once told him that he was music itself. It may be true, but Colloredo never try to explain this to him: the world was more than music, the world was more than him. For instance, the world had only one system of judgement to give one a proper identity in society, to define one is mature or not, and within the kernel of the system lay the principle of balance, any violation lead virtually one-sideness, chaos and suffering, in most cases, owed its bane to disproportional distribution of power in certain aspect. Music or not, definitely not even considered relevant.

Even though he loved his music.

Colloredo was never a person having partiality for some random specialty, but he would be lying if he denied that he loved all those pieces of heaven he performed in chapel, all those suite for court blossomed in floral elegance. Everything this young brat of no man composed was like magic, compelling people to be obsessed by it. Maybe he wasn’t talking crazy, maybe he was music in its purest form, and Colloredo was in love with him since K.203.

Those song sparrows who never mute, those muted swans never fall, those flowers of toughest place, those wild snapdragon even blossom from the crevice of dry wall.

Liberty, freedom, and life as the acme of its grace, being soft and small in a world of hostility yet unbreakable. 

He read enough words and books talking about it, poems eulogizing it, tragedies subliming it with grief and reverence. But none of them matched him. Hieronymus Colloredo was caught by the idea that such sound of Elysium was possibly the Ode to Eleutheria, the residue of scintillating dream from the flowing river of myth that suddenly found a voice to sing. How possible did he deserve the convenience of Eleutheria when he was not great as Alexandra? How could he have an Artemis at his bed? How, by the Grace of Father of Understanding, would he hold the hand of Libertas when by all means his people view him as a dictator?

Maybe it was because he never believed in it. Maybe it’s because the echo of Eleutheria was too powerful and too dangerous. Eleutheria was never unconditional and costed dear, not even Socrates pour his faith in her. Freedom cherishes noble souls but only give pretext to live an un-examined life of arrogance if you let it kindle flame among the un-checked mass – for among their blind passion they never glow but burn together, which was the reason they must be bond to the chain of civilization and kneel, for a kindle from Heaven, from the gaze of Eleutheria, was too much for them.

The truest freedom was to control, Wolfgang Mozart would never understand. When people asked others to treat them as human beings, most of the time, they don’t even understand what the word “human” really meant. These were the same people, when cold judgement was needed, who hide behind the concept of love, and when love was under attack, draw out judgement of kitsch standard.

He realized somehow he and Wenzel Anton sounded too much alike. Ernst must be right, he influenced him too much, in a way in which Wolfgang Mozart might never understand.

He thus never kiss his blonde hair when it immersed in the gold early sunlight, the way he would promise every filthy sin beside his ear yet never utter a word that promise him anything blissful. Maybe neither of them seek such thing from each other – their souls never echo.

“Don’t walk with them, don’t trust them.”

He whispered, but Wolfgang Mozart was already asleep.[4]

 

\--

 

“Constance? Which Constance? I heard a young painter from Paris, a student of Jacques-Louis David, Constance Marie Charpentier, is that her name? That’s quite a talented woman, a daughter from a decent wealthy family, I found the details of her painting rather charming. Wenzel Anton once thought about sponsoring her but taken back by wagging tongues, he has enough gossips annoying his reputation. Some Firmians in Salzburg bought a few of her collections privately, if I recall it correctly.”

“No, your Highness, not her.”

The early autumn of 1781 was scandalous, Baroness Martha Elisabeth von Waldstätten did not lie to him when trying to “borrow” his musician from Salzburg: Wolfgang Mozart was a scandalous trouble wherever he walked (“I understand your worries, your Highness, but if he will induce scandal in Vienna, will him ever ease to be one if **kept** in Salzburg? It’s quite a pointless rebuttal, you know it better than I do.” The Baroness presented rather high skill of negotiation and access of gossips when Colloredo thwarted her request on this young man by suggesting him being ostentatious and frivolous in manner. Colloredo then found himself unable to answer thus, at that moment, kept silent but eventually consented to do so).

“Then it’s Constance of…? Of who? I won’t be surprised if she’s a Constance of no-one, though I’m almost certain that his father won’t be happy about it. You should have seen how eager that old man shove that boy to Baroness Waldstätten but be afraid unable to control the situation, just find me a more palpable phase than ‘prostituting his own son’ in this situation. Anyway, where he got the life-routine inspiration? Jean-Jacques Rousseau?” Colloredo quickened his writings a bit without noticing it, turned out omitting two letters while spelling a rather long word. He found it before tossing the whole paper aside and grabbing a blank one to re-start the whole epistle, all the while without raising neither his voice nor eyes. Logic went not so coherently in his words but acerbity had its teeth bear almost glaringly. “Upper-society. Huh, what do they know about it, they are just tourists and visitors of our lives and thought themselves to be able to grasp the core. They won’t even survive in our condition for more than a month. So which Constance, Arco?”

Arco hesitated for a moment, did not pick up the prince’s topic immediately, instead his lips thinned as if too embarrassed to continue the answer.

“It’s…Constance of Weber, that Webers who being expelled from the office of the...the…”

“The Schönau.” Colloredo put down his quill.

 

Wolfgang Mozart was a trouble in life, his resignation in 1781 tortured the whole summer relentlessly.

“I’m staying in Wien!” He shouted.

“Sure, but then you must stay in the household of Prince Kaunitz as I head back to Salzburg. It will be a great opportunity if you are really good. He is a generous patron and sponsor for the art and industry, and I heard him treat you and your family very well since you are still on the tour of…prodigy.”

The vast resident was suddenly deprived of voice, even a scanty of sound all at once died in silence. The young man paused for one second then, in front of every servant in the house with the staff of his patron, the Prince-Archbishop of Salzburg, sneered aloud.

“Yeah, he treats me well, and he is ten million times better, smarter and stronger than you! You are just a rat comparing to his great understanding of everything! Aren’t you jealous? Aren’t you shame about yourself? Do you want Count Potbelly[5] to cheer you up?”

Colloredo tightened his grip on the book in his hand, took a sharp but slow inhale, but he commented nothing like he was not impressed. Yet the young man wasn’t going to cut him a single big of slack on this.

“You really believe I will listen to your stupid command anymore? You don’t shove me to any other people! You don’t decide where I stay, you fool! I choose where I go where I sleep where I pass over myself! Lock and herd as many as servants you want in that goddamn stench broken big house and present whoever you want as gift, you Highness, you can’t control me! You don’t own my life!”

Hieronymus Colloredo was never the favorite son of his father, therefore in most cases, he naturally grew indifferent to how snobbish servants and maids causing trouble for him since early age because their little trick paled when comparing to those dastardly power legerdemain in court. But Wolfgang Mozart? He gave him headache.

“That stench broken house is the house of the Teutonic Order, it’s ancient but now belongs to my property and well-guarded for security reason. And I’m sure the hygiene of the house is always guaranteed since it passed onto me, but as you complain about the smell I’d suggest you bath more, Mozart. You’d better stop commenting on things you don’t understand. Wien is not a heaven. The people around you are not angels – think wider, the narrow and simple view of your world may one day cost you dear.”

Colloredo did not even raise his tone, he stood on the highest level of the caracole, holding one of the volume of Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibnitz’s writing on mathematics, as Mozart strode all the way up but was stopped by Arco and some guards in the middle, yelling.

“Cost your arse! My world has already been tenfold, no, hundredfold wider than yours! At least I stay with the emperor! The people greet me in one day are more than the people you met in one whole year! Do you even know how they think of you, huh?”

_Huh._

Colloredo stared at him for some seconds, as their eyes met, those blue eyes burnt like the firmament raining stars of sorrow and pain. Colloredo narrowed his eyes and turned on his vision, the young man still glowed, this uncultivated lowborn who still not dry behind his ear remained as a glowing thing in his life – It must be a mockery.

“Serve firmly in the household of Chancellor while I am not in Wien and behave yourself, Mozart, then you can stay and perform for Joseph II and test the water of fame, you have my promise, or you can go back to Salzburg with me next week, continue your nonsense, ‘be yourself’. I have offered you choices instead of calling you to account about your countless misconducts. I don’t blame you for your illiteracy, anyway it is our work to make sure proper and systematic education being available for everyone even lower estates; yet I always feel sorry for your father, I’m sure he is a nobler person than this and he doesn’t raise you to be such unreasonable crazy people without any discipline.”

He turned back as his words was countered by howls of execration, he could hear Arco order other servants to pull him off, the sound of ruffling struggle and scolds. The city of Vienna just stepped into the mid-summer for days without respite from the suffocating heat.

Suffocating?

The city was suffocating, even the flowing clamor stanch in the vein if too much simper taken as sincere, and soft and stuffy air of feast and fame may stoop the straightest spine, all the vibes and vivacity of buzzing crowds that sweat and revel stood on the ground that fed upon the blood and meat of the dead who perished like ember to ash when their last hope of life and future being strangled and drained, nameless memories and dreams one shallow inch below the ground buried. [6] It was a city for animals and beasts in panoply danced on the soil of victims, not even people like his own father and Wenzel Anton would walk through without being wounded deep, without giving up what they couldn’t afford to lose.

“Sacrifice must be made if you want to gain, Mozart, pain must be taken if you want reward. Think about making yourself somewhat useful instead of being a lame dreamer or a mischievous little child never grow up but lives in his own world of dreaming success in his own way, which either makes your life a farce or tragedy.”

He walked back to his study without a look. He remained there all alone until the next sunrise.[7]

 

The next day, he went to the Palais Colloredo, as a valet came in the morning and told him the old Colloredo had recovered well enough, he was not effected by serious after-shock of the stroke and was now able to take a walk and chat with some family visitors under the permission and supervision of his doctor. As a matter of fact, the sudden sickness of old Colloredo was the only reason he vamoosed from Salzburg without neither finishing his current commission from the Order nor settling the bill that still in debate among Salzburg local councilors, the second day when Baroness Waldstätten persuaded him to present Mozart to the elite realm of Vienna. Hieronymus was relieved at this message. He told the valet to inform his father and mother, he would come back to Palais – come home – in the afternoon, and after thought for a while, he asked the valet to pick up his mother to his resident for lunch if she wouldn’t be too tired.

“Un…unfortunately, your Grace, Countess Starhemberg has departed early in the morning since master wakes up.” The valet locked his hands in the front of him, looked uneasy like being forced into a harsh answer. “She is…uhm…heading back to Bohemia.”

Alacritous sparrows under the ashlar pecked at the moss without scruple, where the flowering wisteria clinched up to the wall and dangled over heavily, a luxury acacia stood in the middle of Colloredo garden of brimming green, it was imported from Egypt, said to be the same species in the myth of Osiris and Isis. Old Colloredo sat alone on the bench when his second son walked over. The full bloomed snapdragons flickering when the summer breeze wafted by, two young maids dropped him a curtesy then back to comb the feather of an albino peacock among those exotically colorful symmetric big flowers.

“Father.”

The old man turned over and, surprisingly, grinned. The wrinkles on his forehead seemed heavier than the son had remembered when he smiled.

“Meine Junge.” The old man waved, gestured him to come closer. “Come, sit with me. I haven’t seen you for some years.”

Hieronymus obeyed and joined his father on the bench.

“How are you feeling now, father?”

“Strong and energizing.” The old man winked, took a dry bread beside him. It dropped. Hieronymus picked it up broke some off into small dregs quickly then handed to his old man, the latter scattered them onto the ground, and soon sparrows and other small birds flew over around their feet. They sat there in silence, Hieronymus realized it would be easier for both of them just kept things this way, he had long stopped regarding his father as a life idol or reverent authority, but the feeling was combined. He somehow found himself feeling guilty for being unable to love this old man (including even Franz) a little bit more. He couldn’t even find any word to talk to him, and had no confidence that if any of their conversation might lead only to disappointment.

His old man was not only the Vice-Chancellor of Holy Roman Empire but also a strong and skillful sword fighter for the service of Templar Order, both agile and powerful when in fight, violent and unyielding whenever situation was getting him, which in one way or another explained that even very few people recovered from stroke at his age, he did. As a Templar Grand Master and a high official of Empire, Old Colloredo had a tough and honorable life by common sense, but it didn’t contradict him to be a terrible husband and somewhat more terrible father. He was never fair to his children, Hieronymus remembered how this man accused him being a “traitor” with no morality and knowing nothing about loyalty and gratefulness to the family and duty and everything he had done for him, when finding out his second son was helping Kaunitz to shape his power in court. Hieronymus didn’t know what will happen, if not his mother stood firmly in front of him, coldly and calmly queried her husband what did he himself know about being loyal and grateful if he was already a habitué of _Madame Fleur_ , a notorious private brothel in Vienna (“Or how about going to Romania to join them completely [8], O my virtuous love! And by the Grace of Lord what have you ever done for MY boy if not leaving him all alone in misfortune and ailment for your own selfish heartless good! How dare you! How dare you pronounce yourself as victim!”), clearly the best performance of speaking in both sarcasm and accusation she could manage to, which was a way too biting even acrimonious speech for a lady like her yet somewhat…fair.

He wondered how much his father knew about him and Wenzel Anton Kaunitz back then, he later presumed he possibly knew or at least deducted everything according to how violent his reaction was. That was a period of tough time eventually, for him and Wenzel Anton ended up in not seeing each other in the next twenty years and more – Judging by how small and timid the noble circle could be, it was cruel. Countless nights when in Rome he cursed in nil could then eventually only kneel in small chapel, confessing but could not speak a word like language and dialect had altogether failed in him. Until incessant time washed everything to numb, until one day, he could sit beside his father like nothing happened, without a word.

He put some crumbs in his own palm and waited for coming little birds. He didn’t know if it was because of the stroke that possibly damaged some part of his brain or some tails of nerve therefore the old man now became somewhat calm even amicable to him. Stroke was whatever strange and terrible, had it this time taken old Colloredo away for real, Hieronymus found himself didn’t recoil at this idea yet still uncomfortably lashed into remorse of his own indifference.

It was somewhat ironic.

He remembered that Wenzel Anton had a strange disease as well, but it seemed never to affect his mind. He also remembered how keyed up his nerves were back then when he thought he would just lose him right at that stormy very night. It was the first time he saw Wenzel Anton being struck by his illness: he was on fever, unable to move his left arm, and couldn’t feel his left body like he was dying. Wenzel Anton back then was just newly and reluctantly promoted to be the Chancellor of Holy Roman Empire and Hieronymus was still at his early twenties, hardly walked out of his ailment of madness thanks to the battle in Blood Street some years ago, quietly studied in University of Vienna and started to stay overnight in Palais Kaunitz frequently and secretly. He ended up nudging against him at that night of furry tempest, lacing fingers with the other man’s left hand quietly. Wenzel Anton asked him to read him something but didn’t allow him to go upstairs to find a light-hearted novel or at least some Michel de Montaigne or Voltaire in his private library, not even allow him to let go of his hand. Hieronymus looked around and found the only book within his reach (despite of piles of missives and archives and other bumf) was il volume _Inferno_ della _La Comedìa_ di Dante Alighieri. The thunderstorm hailed the promise of heavier rainfall as the once calm and gentle summer night dissipated behind fury dark clouds, yet within the Palais Kuanitz danced only light and shade. Hieronymus leaned against him, laced their fingers when the thunder trembled the earth and lightning lacerated the heaven, reading him _Inferno_.

He was dying.

He never told Wenzel Anton that was a night when he again saw that formidable apparatus in his nightmare and madness manifested its shape into his reality. He never told Wenzel Anton what deal he had made that night.

He wished the tempest never eased and sun never raise.

 

His mind drifted in distance when old Colloredo spoke to him. It took him several seconds to realize his father was asking him something.

“Sorry. I didn’t catch up.”

Surprisingly, the old man did not gave him any vituperative critics or a cold sneer without a word as before, instead just waved his hand and assured him there was nothing important. The birds still chirped at their feet, one bold sparrow landed on the old man’s knee.

“Something in your mind, my son?”

Hieronymus did not answer immediately, but stared at his unfolding hand. The old man did not push him, but sighed disappointedly as the sparrow on his knee flew away.

“Is it possible that the vision…my vision, could get wrong in some certain cases?” The son suddenly asked.

Old Colloredo paused a bit, his eyes resting somewhere with soft focus. A nightingale stood on the angel sculpture on top of the purling fountain tilted its head

“I don’t know others, but I know my grandfather and I know me.” The aged man spoke slowly, so slow that now Hieronymus was almost certain that the stroke had indeed wrecked him. “The vision, it’s not always working clearly as a diction or syntax, meine Junge, but it never err – sometimes you really don’t want to trust it because of its unhuman frankness. But use your reason and critique, son, they are the beacon of the world.”

The nightingale flew over, stopped on his wrist, singing so beautifully like this is his last song. Old Colloredo gazed at this little creature, face relaxed.

“Count Ulfeldt will make speech tomorrow I heard, I hope you will attend.” He suddenly said.

…?

_…Count Ulfeldt?_

Hieronymus shot his head up and all at once realized whom his father was referring to, the name belonged to a long deceased Chancellor of Holy Roman Empire, the one hold the office before Wenzel Anton Kaunitz stepped into the realm of power.

He forgot. He was a broken man already.

Hieronymus didn’t answer but looked silently at old Colloredo, the latter looked back and grinned. The smile was warm and proud, it reminded him of the night before he departed for the first mission.

“May the father of Understanding guide you, Hieronymus.”

The dazzling sunlight was and white and bright, but could he only sense was the dense shadow it casted behind.

“And you, father.”

He smiled.

 

\--

 

The snow was not yet to come. The late autumn of Vienna rained mercilessly, the junction between the resident area of second and third class civilians was now a warren of cold muddy water. He rode with Antonio Salieri, their handsome steeds and the heavy fine cloaks drew them much attention, obviously people of higher class hardly visit these districts. Young girls of low born leaned out of the window, looking.

“Guardasoni regrets about it, and turned to blame me.”

“Because of _La Clemenza de Tito_?”

“Sì. I recommend Mozart to him anyway. He seems have…difficulties to deal with decent opera managers and administrator directly, which thus fails himself to secure enough subscriptions to sustain his living expense.” Salieri glanced to somewhere distant, “Your lovely Mozart failed to please those targeting ears, like Empress Maria Luisa. ‘Porcheria tedesca’ – that’s what she says. I don’t know if she presents her opinion just to imitate her passed mother-in-law Empress Maria Theresa, who, as you know, hold little interest in Mozart family in fact – according to one of my source – was the one persuaded Archduke Ferdinand of Milan not to hire Wolfgang into his court when he is fifteen, or it is her true review—I prefer both for I personally don’t think she understands it at all. Though truthfully speaking, I don’t like the quiet and slow ending of the first act. But it doesn’t matter.” He pulled his hood a little lower as the cold wet wind almost felt like lacerating one’s cheek by its frozen hatred, then glanced back to Colloredo. “Anyway just think about it, your Highness, now the _Tito_ , firstly despised by the royals, now has spread its fame in the vast public like a wild fire – just think about how it might tickle the nerve of emperor, in such a year.”

“Che cagna.” Colloredo huffed with despise, tightened his grabbing of the rein. “She has some inappropriate ambition, which revealed everywhere.”

“Her reputation of pontificating was not of a lame indeed.”

“I didn’t know you have such access of information.”

“We musicians as state servants, access everything, more than your Highness could imagine.” Salieri lifted a slyly smile, “Knowledge chooses pliable mind than prerogative resources.”

“Herr Salieri, I had to admit, your didactic eloquence exceeds your position. I don’t think my petty court will satisfy your ambition.”

“Huh, truthfully speaking, Master Colloredo, I’m not that into the conviviality of you nobles, my taste is always resting on simplicity.”

“Noble mind ennobles senses, simplicity itself speaks, Herr Salieri.” Colloredo smiled. “Wolfgang Mozart is lucky to have a friend like you.”

Salieri didn’t answer but send his horse into trot. Colloredo followed after.

When Colloredo pulled up the curb, the horse he rode stopped at the crossing where linked the section of small citizens and the blocks of plebs, Vienna went into another night of heavy rain. Foul washed by rain fall raise a strange smell in moisture air, the effluent streamed beneath them like a river, hardly can anyone set their feet on the muggy street. His horse snorted somewhat annoyingly, she was a thoroughbred from Andalusia, never ever had she treaded outside beautiful meadow even though her breed was meant for both sprint and war. But for now, she was simply annoyed by the rain and mud.

“Shhh, easy, princess.” Colloredo petted the side of her silver neck to calm her down where her long hairs were a mess.

Antonio Salieri did not look him, as his own dark horse remain much calmer.

“I suggest we leave them in the tavern over there. We must be cautious and stay low.” Antonio Salieri jumped off the horse and led it to another side of the road.

“Does he really now reside in these blocks?” The raining sound blurred his words, cold water drops ran down over his face, the Prince-Archbishop frowned.

“He rents a single room here,I doubt if Constance knew about her husband rents a room in the penury residency. I discovered here while on a mission about half year ago, that’s also when I found out the Assassins are contacting him. And I doubt if he really ‘rents’ the place, it’s more likely a hide-out in Assassin hive.”

Colloredo took a sharp breath.

“Why this little bastard always acts in a way of eager death!”

“He didn’t know anyway. Maybe that’s why he always gives me an impression that he is eager for love, he will do whatever crazy thing as long as people like him, love him, care him and cheer him. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they want. The family apartment he and Constance rent is behind the Blood Street now will not be frequently visited by Assassins, since you now have dispatched Templar guards to watch over them. I hope he won’t be too depressed if the Mason community suddenly shut him off as well, he is feebly sensitive on his reception recently.”

Colloredo kept silence for a while and scanned the surrounding. The rain blurred the details of world too much, it looks plain and cold.

“It’s too quiet. It could be a trap.”

“Sì.” Salieri fastened his horse to a stake in a loose knob and grabbed his cane. “But we don’t have other choices, do we? I actually bring here up to your brother, I mean Grand Master, many times, but not even once has he failed to pass it by, thus I don’t think we’ll have any backup today even if we get stuck and make big noises.”

Colloredo stared intensely into the area of acock buildings of low height.

“I have a plan, but we must be quick.”

“Then it’s my honor to fight alongside the legendary Apple Breaker who crippled the elite system of Austria Assassin branch all alone. To be honest, I’m eager to see your style since…well, you should hear how Templars of Vienna circulate your story.”

Colloredo narrowed his eyes.

“Something I think you need to know, my friend. I didn’t break the Apple, it possibly is a quite dysfunctional one since it came to our possession. There was also a piece of Shroud in that container, the golden fleece. Or how do you think I survive from the foray of all those elite Assassins all by myself? I was only seventeen and I can’t win, so I cheat.” He checked the pistol and the sword in scarbade. “You’ve already seen what price I paid, and I’m going to pay it to my grave.”

The rain had both of them chilled to core, he could see the lip of the other man turned purple. He took out an extra pistol and shoved into Salieri’s hand.

“I’m not an elegant stylist in fighting, unfortunately, but I prefer modern ways when necessary if this is the style you refer to. Come. We have work to do. Promise me one thing, Herr Salieri, whatever happened, don’t touch anything looks like a Piece of Eden.”

“But I’ve never…”

“You will know immediately when it comes to your eyes.”

 

\--

 

“I’ve no idea what you still want from us, Prince Colloredo. I know everything. Wolfgang has told me since everything begins.” Nannerl spoke calmly, with a bitter smile lifting on the corner of her mouth. “But you are heartless, you know, rejecting him then trying to shove him to other people. But what can citizens like us expect? ”

Without paying him more attention, the sister took out a small wooden cross, and try to place it onto the top of her father’s headstone. It was a little bit of too high for her, yet she shunned her hand firmly and determinedly away as the much taller Prince-Archbishop was about to help her. Thus Colloredo stood silently aside, he wore just black garment of simplicity, looked no different from anyone who came the cemetery and pay their deceased ones a visit by glance. The woman in front of his eyes looked weary, she neither wore a wig nor powdered her hair, it braided loosed but it no longer looked like a gold rivulet when hanging over her shoulder as he remembered. She used to remind him of Maria Isabella – his Anna – especially when she spoke to Wolfgang Mozart, though he could not pointed out which part of her truly resembled the dream-like Princess von Fondi, maybe her eyes or hair, or maybe the way they smiled.

The autumn of 1789 in Salzburg was nothing special but nothing bad. October had already painted the even the arteries of Salzburg to colors of life before winter came, no longer of those of banality and effete but of gratification of life with purpose and hope even the earth no longer vivaciously in life but silently waiting for the frosty embrace of winter.

Who might have known ten years ago how much pressure they had undergone for a nearly clasping economy almost failed the land into bankrupt and total disaster? He remembered Ernst when finally presented the final version of a more than two hundred page plan on economic renovation and other bureaucracy adjustment in details, which he himself and the clerks and the whole committee lead by this Lodron man worked for months, that man stood up during the local council and elite gathering, speaking, words loud and steady: “Salzburg is gonna make it!”

Ernst was never a liar or a person of pomposity, he made his every word count. Thus they really did, their plan worked all way well though not perfectly but Salzburg eventually, indeed, made it.

But Ernst did not.  

The intensity and pressure of work wrecked his already feeble health completely. He was already in horrible condition by the Christmas of 1779, yet he still managed to attend the council gathering in January, even made incisive and lucid comment. His condition lightened obviously in that month but when turned to February suddenly everything steeped down. His spavined flesh couldn’t hold any longer. He floundered in chaotic mind for two days, in high fever and sporadic shaking, eventually passed away in torturous relentlessness unable to share with anyone.

Two years later, his wife Maria Antonia, followed him by a grievous and lingering death.

She didn’t forgive him, not even allowed the Prince-Archbishop to attend her funeral as a friend. The woman blamed his dastardly selfishness and pharisaic stubborn that killed her husband, he should have returned him to her as they promised since young, not exploiting his own friend to death.

By the Christmas Eve of 1782, it snowed heavily, the jackdaw flew off while the snow had been swept over the rails. Colloredo found himself stood alone in the cemetery of St. Andrew, facing the monument stone of two of his dearest friends, realizing from now on, he walked alone.

 

“When we were children, Wolfgang and I were close. We write frequently, especially when father goes…went to Milan with him. He used to complain about his life being such a boring one, music filled his world, he has nothing but music in his life—he doubts if he really wants this, he scares.”

Leaves of autumn fell without the faintest sound, a flock of wild bird circled down to the riverside. The sun slowly sank down below horizon, Lingaasse on the other side of the Sebastian cemetery wall bustling in warm sounds of life.

“He thought he had escaped it when he returned. He enjoys his life until he met you, until you…” Nannerl eyed vaguely aside and blinked hard, as to prevent tears from falling. “He has to escape from you because, you know what, he realizes again his life is emptily full, but this time it’s not music, but you. He doesn’t want such a life, it scares him, he can’t control it.”

Colloredo remained silent. Narnnel took out a bota bag from her clutch, drank without giving the man standing beside a look.

“Shallow silly poor thing, isn't he? Always chasing a distant dream and forget who he is, who we are. I thought I should have keep this all to myself but I can’t. You'd better arrest me on such insulting when you can, your Highness, I'm leaving Salzburg tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

The woman sneered, stared at Leopold Mozart’s tombstone for a while.

“Our father loved us, but in a horrible way. I didn’t realize how bad this life could become when he forced me to break up with d'Ippold. He uttered horrible words you couldn’t imagine a father would to a daughter, I now believe I must be mad back then to consent all these shit. I know from that moment, something in me is already broken, plucked. I have given up the most beautiful thing in my life I ever have, whatever more matters little. So first music, then my baby boy, one by one.”

She sniffed, still stared at the tombstone.

“I understand the pain.” Colloredo spoke softly but only to met Narnnel’s distained smirk.

“No, you don’t.”

She sniffed again, if not more closely to be suctioning, dropped her head and groped in her clutch but in vain. Colloredo handed over her a handkerchief, the woman stared at it for a while, then this time, took it.

“You never understand him, do you?”

Colloredo didn’t answer her. The woman spoke on, like she was talking to herself.

“It ain’t gonna surprise me because you never try. He knows it, so he tries to understand you, but the more he feels, the more he knows he could never have you. It actually delights me because I thought he is quickly coming to terms on such nonsense affair with a high nobility - what do you people know but fake smiles and postured affection. But I was wrong. He falls hard for you, and all he had was his music. Actually the idea of all he had was music never bother him. He never doubted his music, not even in Paris, but when facing you? He was not so sure. Do you even know what’s in his music? The unspeakable could be sung, the unreachable can be touched, the heaven may kiss the earth, do you ever heard all those things? He is a damn person stucking between two worlds, a pleb messing in court, a genius walking in the common, he never had a choice. He told me he never found a way to make you feel all of these bliss no matter how much he wanted, he could never reach your soul. He can’t understand why all the other people of low born masses can easily be touched and charmed by his blissful melody no matter how un-educated they are but you cannot. You never echo his yearn no matter how hard he yells in a way in which only death can tolerate. You know, he decided to leave you and leave Salzburg because everything is suffocating him, it’s too much. Father is pushing him to obey a civilized world he in fact cannot cope, and you are pushing him to…tsk.”

The woman frowned, then took out her bota bag again, narrowed her eyes and drank. She turned around, looked firmly to the nobility.

“You know, he is an affectionate person, all the thing matters to him is love and life. But you? I don’t know how he truly think of you but to me you live like a dead man and maybe you are pushing him to become a person like you, an unloving walking being of orderly death. He told me that perhaps all his music may eventually fail to touch you one day because you have your own demon by your side. I laughed at him you know, he is still acting like a child of fairy tale. I think what he means is, you will eventually abandon him, because you are not a person to be touchable for him. But who knows? I should have told him that you don’t have a heart to touch anyway, so why bother? Maybe he is right about you. You must have a demon by your side.”[9]

The last warm light of day suddenly chilled. Colloredo stood in awe at what he heard.

 

 

 

CHP4 end

 

Please wait for the next chapter of special episode! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I'm sorry Joseph. No, he is not. He is just too idealist and not very political-talented, which means tons of his reform plans are in fact rootless and easy to be reversed if tide changes (which is in fact what exactly happens after his death). He is just more a dreamer than a doer, Wenzel Anton Kaunitz when as chancellor in fact never liked his radicalness and rashness, they always argue.  
> [2] Uhmm, yes he did. But Wenzel Anton Kaunitz excluded old Colloredo because he was kinda, uhm, “faint-hearted” on that situation, gets everything personal. But the true reason is, the whole Privy Conference is getting his nerve for being unprofessional and inefficient, so he picked out Old Colloredo as a pretext to free his War Cabinet from the shit hole of Privy Conference. Yeah, poor thing.  
> [3] It's Pierre Bellec! But…why, Ubisoft!? Why!?  
> [4] Trust me, you can't imagine how strict the upper class and the second class are separated and differentiated back then in German-speaking region. If put the melieu complex into consideration, you won't hesitate to identify the Der Einfache Weg scene in original musical being obviously canon gay, like - oh come on!  
> [5] Ernst. Wolfgang Mozart truly gave this mean name to him, but never say it aloud anyway.  
> [6] Tribute to the _Assassin's Creed: Syndicate _theme song _Underground _! I literately cried my eyes out at the ending of ACS turns and this heart-breaking melody raises.____  
>  [7] No, it's not Ich Bleibe in Wien scenery. And Hieronymus Colloredo, when goes back to Vienna in 1781, is due to his father being suffered from a stroke. Old Colloredo has already recovered upon his arrival. It was after all of these, he summomed Wolfgang Mozart to Vienna. That's a long break off.  
> [8] Empress Maria Theresa has no toleration on prostitution in fact. She ordered to ship all those prostituting “anti-social” to Romania. But…well, the prostitution in Austria never stops, if not flourishes more.  
> [9] For everything Narnnel says, about their father about love, check the bio of Mozart written by Norbert Elias. It's not a master-piece level comparing to all the other Elias works, but possibly the best Mozart bio to approach the Mozart! Das Musical I've ever touched. I hold high expectation on Peter Gay's, but didn't finish it because that one is somehow largely...off his game level. Yeah I understand, write a bio of genius is hard.


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